C;^: 



y^ 












;hm 






ppppf 





Book 



8?6 




//,/////. yyA 



n^ 



mm^ wmYm 



Off 



AMERICA 



A COLLECTION 03" 



ELOQUENT AND INTERESTING EXTRACTS 



FROM THE WRITINGS OF 



^HSiBiiSiaffii if\(iiif[a®E§ 



-T^ 



BY GEO. Bi^CHEEVER. D. D, 



WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE. 
139 EIGHTH STREET, 

NEW YORK. 

18T6. 



RS64-5 
■C5 



COPTEIGHT, 1876, BY 

WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, 



In JiixchangQ 
Gar/ett Biblioiki Iaglt« 
Juno i8, 1929 



PREFACE. 



BooK3 of common-place are the amusements of 
literature. It is pleiasant to have at one's side a well- 
sclecictl volume, to which he may turn for mentai 
recreation, when the fatigue of preceding exertion 
has rendered him unequal to hitellectual effort. It is 
pleasant, also, to have before us the eloquent passages 
of our favourite authors, so that we may occasionally 
awukei. and prolong the delightful sensations with 
which we at first perused them. But the mere power 
of conferring amusement is not that, which gives to 
publicat'ons of this sort their highest value. To all 
those, whose constant occupation precludes the possi- 
bility of spending many leisure hours in the acquisi- 
tion of literary taste and knowledge, they may be ren- 
dered eminently useful. 

The present volume is selected entirely from Ameri- 
can authors, and contains specimens of American lit- 
erature from its earliest period to the present day. It 
is hoped that it may not be found inferior in excellence 
or interest to any of those compilations which have 
hitherto embraced only the morceaux delicieuse of Eng- 
lish genius. 

When we say this, it is without any feehng of na- 
tional vanity or rivalry. Our wish is merely to furnish 
a volume which shall corresjmnd m design and execu 
cion to tiiose which are now so popular abroad, and 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Adams, J 204 

Ames £-9, 25G. ".''5 

Anonvtnoua 4.-H> 

Anthology, Mcathly. ... 43. 
Applcton b6 



Bancroft, G 2*3 

Beecher 57, 3t8 

Big Elk Maha Chief. . . . 1'.'0 
Drown, C. B. ... 12S, OW 
Buckminster. 

19, 59, 124, 172, 224, S45, ^b;) 

Carter, J. G. 55 

Cass. . . 337 

Channing. ... 43, 111, 262 

Club-Room 14,197 

Cooper. 99, 192, 283, 319, 383, 444 

Dana, R 268 

Dannie 10,97,404 

Du Ponceau 439 

Dwigiit 9, 107, 396 



Emerson, G. B. 
Everett, A. H. 
E . 



. ]33 
75, 417 
44, 221 



Farmer's Bro*.!j«r. (an Indian 
Chief.) .. ,'.... 180 

Fitch 234 

Flint 336 

Francis Bernan 425 

Francis, Miss. 141, 238, 430, 457 

Franklin 23,312 

Frisbie 21,355 



Greenwood. 
Griscom. . 



141, 215, 350, 359 
. 226, 343 



Hale, Mrs 453 

Hamilton 242, 414 

Bopkinson F. .... 135 

Idle Man 33,427 

Irving. . 48, 153 223, 298, 346 



Jiv. ........ 2.53 

JoiTorsoi:. . . . 25,74,230 

KirklanJ 88 

MaaisoT. ..... 218,378 

ni-'.-h£.il. 64 

M;non 3G7 

M6l!02,G 459 

Norton. .... . 66, 217 

Kott. 363 

Paulding 53,2*5,296 

Quincy, J., Jun. . 37, 185, 249 
auincy, J 123, 450 

Ramsay 397 

Red Jacket, (an Indian Chief.) 370 
Review, AnvJrican Quarterly. 277 

North American. 115, 403 

Rush. 205,440 

Sedgwick, Miss. 

81, 190, 329, 429, 4^2 

Sergeant . . 94 

Siirourney Mrs. . 145, 461 

Silliman 23,166,467 

Sparks 27* 

Story 4"'7 

Slubec 3b0 

Thacher 146, 266, 443 

Ticknor 38,181,393 

Token 451 

Tudor. . 209, 240, 306, 421 

Ware 31 

Wasliington. . . 176 

Wa viand. . 26, 71, 169, 339 

Webster. 51, 161, 223, 310, -^2, 451 

Whoaton, H 415 

Willis, N P 460 

Wirt. 12,68 150,263 421,434 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Page, 

Ro(«?ncss of tho Deity displayed in tho Beauty of Creation. Dwigkt. 9 ^ 

Nig lit Season ra%-oiiral)ie to Contemplation and Study. . . Dennie. 10 /. 

CoUoquial Powers of Dr. Franklin Wirt. 12 * 

An Apparition Club-Room. 14 

Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion. 

Buckminster. 19 ; 

Reciprocal Iiifluonc*,' of Slorals and Literature. . ... Frisbie. 21 

Evening Scenes on tl;« St. Lawrence Silliman. 23 

Franklin's f!«i. Entrance into Philadelphia Franklin. 23 

Passage of the I'litoinac through the Bine Ridge. . . . Jefferson,. 25 

Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. Wavland. 26 ■/- 

Character of Washington Anits. 29 

Labnurs of pt;riodn'al Composition Idle Jtlan, 33 

Industry neccrisar\- to tlie Attainmunt of Eloquence. . . . fTare. 34 

Ingratitude toivjinls tlio Deity .... AppUton. 36 a 

Resistance to ()p|>rCRsiou J. Quincy, Jiin. 37 

Lafayette in tiie French Revolution Ticknor, 38 

Poeia nascitur, Orator tit JSlonikly Jintholoffy. 42 

Intellectnal Q.nalitics of Milton. .... . . Chamiiug. 43 

National FvCcol lections the Foundation of national Cbaractiir. 

E. Everett. 44 

Extract from the Legend of Sleepy flollow Irving. 46 

Rellections on the Settlement of Ne\y England. . . . Webster 51 

Forest Scenery Paulding 53 

Influence of Christianity in elevating the female Character. 

J. O. Carter 55 

Necessity of a pure national Morality. . . Bcecher 57 

Value of religious Faith Buckminster 59 

Death of General Washington Marshall 64 

Tlie Lessons of Death . JSTorton 66 

Character of Chief Justice Marshall H^rt 63 

Moral Suhliniity illustrated Wayland 71 

Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of the Mingoea. . . . Jefferson 74 

Fox, Burke, and Pitt ^. H. Everett 75 

Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians. . . Miss Sedgicick. 81 

Character of Fisher Ames . Kirkland. 88 

Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson. . . . Scrtreant, 94 

Indolence Vennie. 97 

Escai)e of Harvey Birch and Captain WHiarton Cooper. 99 

Scenery in the Notch of the Wiiite Mountains Dwight. 107 

Exalted Characier of Poetry Channing. HI 

Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. JSTorth American Recie7o. 115 

Death of J. Quiney, Juil . . .... J. Quincy l'-i3 

Danger of Delav 111 Religion . Buckminster. 124 

Scenes in Philudelphia during the Prevalence of the Yel\)v/ Fe- 
ver, in 1793 C. B. Brown. 12y 



.6 • TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

r* . 

Importance of Knowledge to the Mecl.anic. . . O. B. Emtrs^n. 133 
llaiiiorous Description of the Custom of Whitewashing. 

Francis ITopkinson 

May you die among your Kindred ih-eemnood 

IJoscrii-tioii of LLlJoiith :Scfciiu JilLs Fnincis 

Tho Kose .15 

Intiuence of Foinal-J Character 

('huracter of James Monroe. 

'I'he Stout Gein]e!i»;iu. A Stago-coach TLomanoo 
Patriotism and EliximMice of John Adams, 
Descrijilion of tlie Speedwell Mine in England. . , . 
E!le(;ts of the modern Diffusion of KnowTeilge. . . . 
The liove of human Estimation, . . . . . , 



iiwuriicij, 

Tkacher. 

. PP'trt. 

Irnivg. 

ll'rii.ster. 

. SilUm'ni. 166 

n'ayland. 16S 

3a:kpu7i.i-ier. 172 



Extract from an Address on retiring from the public Sei^'ics of t;ie 

United States of America Washiii<ft.nn. 17t 

Speech over the Grave of Black Buffalo, Chief of the Tetou Tribe 

of Indians . Bif^ Elk Malta Chief . 119 

Speech of Ho-na-yiu-wiui, or Farmcr^s Brother j30 

Abdication of Napoleonj and Retirement of Lafayclie. . Ticknor. J8l 

Extract from. " Hyperion." J. Qiiincy Juii. 183 

Tlie Sabbath in New England MU-i &sdlf}cick. \m 

192 



Description of the Capture of a Whale Cooper. 

Ijake Gcorrjc Club- Room. 

Hypochondriasis and its Remedies Ru^/i. 

Climate and Scenery of New England Tudor. 



First and ;:jecond Death. . 

Postitumoua Influence of the Wise and Good. 
Ditfic.ultics eunountered by the Fodtiral Convention, 
Beflections on the Buttle of liexiisgt on. . . . 
Purpose of the M'.)nuin'.>nt on Bunker Hill. . . . 

Albums and tlv; A\\y6 

Interview with Rtjbert Southoy 

Christmas. 



Oreevwood. 
JVurlon. 

. jMadi.>on. 

E. Everett. 

. jy^bster. 223 
Buckmin.-iter . 234 
, . Oriscom. 226 
, . :rvin<r. 228 



197 
205 
209 
2i5 
217 
218 
221 



Declaration of American Independence Jefferson. 

Mementos of the Instability of human E-vistencc Fitch. 

Description of the Preaching of Whitfield. . . . J\Ii6S F-'' iia/; . 

Anecdote of Dr. Chaimcy Tudur. 

Effects of a Dissohiiion of the Federal ITiiion. * . . TIaiiiiltnn. 

Sports on New Year's Day. .... .... Panldiiiir. 

Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bil'." 

J. Qninci;, Jiai. 
Necessity of Union bf.twwa the States. ... ... Jay. 

Character of Hamilton ... Ames. 

M;)rality of Poetry O. Bancroft 

The ('onsofjuencfts of Atheism. ... ... Ckannintr. 

The blind Preacher .... Ulrt 

The humble Man and the proud. . . ... Thachzr 

TheSon.— From '-The Idle Man," . . . . R.Dana. 

Ne>jlect of foreign ijiierature in An 



Death a sublime and universal Moralist. 

Battle of Bunker Iliil 

Autumn and Spring. 

The Storm ^hip .... 

Anecdote of Jatnes Otis . 

Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis. 
Slose of the liives of Adams and Jefferson 
Silorals of Chess . ... . ... . 



.dmerican Q,uarierly Review. 



Sparks 

Cooper. 

Paulding. 

Irving. 

J. Adavis. 

riulor. 

. Webster 

Franklin. 



2.30 
234 
238 
240 
242 
245 

249 
2.-V3 
25G 
259 
2.,2 
2.13 
2o6 

277 
279 
283 
29fi 
993 
304 
308 
310 
31J 



^ROSE WRITERS 



AMERICA 



Goodness of the Deify displayed in the Beauty qf 
Creation. — D wight 

Were all the interesting diversities of colour and form 
to disappear, how unsightly, dull, and wearisome, would 
be the aspect of the world ! The pleasures, conveyed to 
i7s by the endless varieties, with which these sources of 
beauty are presented to the eye, are so much things of 
course, and exist so much without intermission, that we 
scarcely think either of their nature, their number, or the 
great proportion which they constitute in the whole muss of 
our enjoyment." But, were an inhabitant of this country 
to be removed from its delightful scenery to the midst of 
an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a waste, 
spread with uniform desolation, enlivened by the murmur 
of no stream, and cheered by the beauty of no verdure ; 
although he might live in a palace, and riot in splendour 
and luxury, he would, I think, find life a dull, wearisome, 
melancholy round of existence ; and, amid all his gratifi- 
cations, would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native 
land, the brooks, and rivers, the living lustre of the Spring, 
and the rich glories of the Autumn. ^ The ever-varying 
brilliancy and grandeur of the landscape, and the magnifi- 
cence of the sky, sun, moon, and stars, enter more exten- 
sively into the enjoyment of mankind, than we, perhaps, 
ever think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent 
and extensive investigation. This beauty and splendour of 
the objects around us, it is ever to be remembered, is not 
necessary to their existence, nor to what we commonly in- 
tend by their usefulness. ' It is, therefore, to be regarded 



10 CGMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

as a source of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon the 
general nature of the objects themselves, and. in IijIs light 
as a testimony of the divine goodness peculiarljT afiecting. 



JVight Seascn favourable to Contemplation and 
Study. — Dennie. 

*' Watchman, what of the night r" — Isaiah xxi. 11. 

To this query of Isaiah, the watchman replies, that 
*' The morning cometh, and also the night." The brevity 
of this answer has left it involved in something cf the ob- 
scurity of the season in which it was given. I think that 
night, however sooty and ill-favoured it may be proijounced 
by those who were born under a daystar, merits a more 
particular description. I feel peculiarly disposed to ar- 
range some ideas in favour of this season. I know that 
the majority are literally hlind to its merits ; they must 
be prominent, indeed, to be discerned by the clu'sed eyes 
of the snorer, who thinks that night was made for nothing 
but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to 
believe that it Avas formed for higher purposes ; and that 
it not only recruits exhausted spirits, but sometimes in- 
forms inquisitive and mends wicked ones. 

Duty, as well as inclination, urges the Lay Preacher to 
sermonize while others slumber. To read numerous vol- 
umes in the morning, and to observe various characters at 
noon, will leave but little time, except the night, to digest 
the one or speculate upon the other. The night, there- 
fore, is often dedicated to composition, and, while the light 
of the paly planets discovers at his desk the Preacher, more 
W'.n than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically 
with Dr. Young, 

" Darkness has much Divinity for me.' 

He is then alone ; he is then at peace. No companions 
near, but the silent volumes on his shelf; no noise abroad 
but the click of the village clock or the bark of the vil- 
lage dog. The deacon has then smoked his sixth, and Zasf 
pipe, and asks not a question mort concerning Josephus 



COMMOx\-rLACE BOOK OP .'ROSE. 11 

or the church. Siillness aids study, and the sermon pro- 
ceeds. Such being the obU<^ations to night, it would be 
ungrateful not to acknowledge them. As my watchful 
eyes can discern its dim beauties, my wai-m heart shall 
feel, and my prompt pen shall describe, the uses and pleas- 
ures of the nocturnal hour. "* 

** Watchman, what of the night ?" I can with propriety 
imagine this question addressed to myself; I am a professed 
lucubrator ; and who so well qualified to delineate the sa- 
ble hours as 

" A meager, muse-rid mope, adust and thin ?" 

However injuriously night is treated by the sleepy mod- 
erns, the vigilance of the ancients could not overlook its 
benefits and joys. In as early a record as the book of 
Genesis"*, 1 find that Isaac, though he devoted his assiduous 
days to action, reserved speculation till night. " He went 
out to meditate in the field at eventide." He chose that 
sad, that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of a be- 
loved and departed mother. The tumult and glare of the 
day suited not with the sorrow of his soul. He had lost 
his most amiable, most genuine friend, and his unosterta- 
tious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere s)r- 
rovv rarely suffers its tears to be seen. It was natural for 
Isaac to select a season to weep in, that should resemble 
" the colour of his fate." The darkness, the solemnity, 
the stillness of the eve, v/ere favourable to his melancholy 
purpose. He forsook, therefore, the bustling tents of his 
father, the pleasant "south country," and "well of La- 
hairoi ;" he went out and pensivel}-^ meditated at even- 
tide. 

The Grecian and Roman philosophers firmly believed 
that the " dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One 
of them is beautifully described by the poet as soliciting 
knowledge from the skies in private and nightly audience, 
and that neither his theme, nor his nightly walks, were 
forsaken till the sun appeared, and dimmed his " nobler in- 
'teliectual beam," We undoubtedly owe to the studious 
nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immortal 
productions. Among them it w^as necessary that every 
Vnan •>( letters should trim the midnight lamp. The daj 



12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

might be given to the forum or the circus, but the night 
was the season for tre statesman to project his schemes, 
and for the poet to poiir his verse. 

Night has, likewise, with great reason, been considered, 
in every age, as the astronomer's day. Young observes, 
with energy, that 

" An undevout astronomer is mad." 

The privilege of contemplating those brilliant and nu- 
merous myriads of planets which bedeck our skies is pe- 
culiar to night, and it is our duty, both as lovers of moral 
and natural beauty, to bless that season, when we are in- 
dulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and use- 
ful light. It must be confessed, that the seclusion, calm- 
ness, and tranquillity of midnight, are most friendly to seri- 
ous, and even airy contemplations. 

I think it treason to this sable Power, who holds divided 
empire with Day, constantly to shut our eyes at her ap- 
proach. To long sleep I am decidedly a foe. As it is 
expressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of 
it in the grave. Those, who cannot break the silence of 
the night by vocal throat, or eloquent tongue, may be per- 
mitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers, 
who possesses the power of fancy and strong thought, 
should be vigilant as a watchman. Let him sleep abun- 
dantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better, 
sometimes, to consult a page of philosophy than the pillow. 



Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin. — Wirt. 

Never have I known such a fireside companion as he 
was ! — Great as he was, both as a statesman and a philoso- 
pher, he never shone in a light more winning than when 
he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once mj' good 
ibrtune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house 
of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania ; 
and we were confined to the house during the whole of 
that time, by the unintermitting constancy and depth of the 
snows. But confinement could never be felt where Franli- 



COMMON-PLACE HOOK Of' TROSE. 13 

»in was an inmate. — His cheerfulness and his colloquial 
DOwers spread around him a perpetual spring. — When I 
speak, however, of his colloquial powers, i do not mean to 
awaken any notion analogous to that which Bosweli ha? 
given us, when he so frequently mentions the colloquial 
powers of Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter 
continually reminds one of " the pomp and circumstance 
of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for 
victory, or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage 
to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, 
splendid and vociferous ; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as 
those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, 
and rocking the old castles that frowned upon the dark 
rolling sea beneath. But one gets tired of storms, however 
sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly cur- 
rent of nature. — Of Franklin no one ever became tired. 
There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine, in 
any thing which came from him. There was nothing 
which made any demand either upon your allegiance or 
your admiration. 

His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was na- 
ture's self. He talked like an old patriarch ; and his plain- 
ness and simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave 
you the full and free possession and use of all your fac- 
ulties. 

His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own 
light^ Avithout any adventitious aid. They required only a 
medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit, 
to the highest advantage, their native radiance and beauty. 
His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as 
much the effect of the systematic and salutary exercise 
of the mind as of its superior organization. His wit was 
of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occa- 
sional coruscations ; but, without any effort or force on his 
part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over 
the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of 
commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man ; 
always most perfectly at his ease, his faculties in full play, 
and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and uncloud- 
ed. And then the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. 
He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant, thaj 



14 COJlMON-rLACE BUOK OF niUSE. 

nothing had escaped his observation, and a judgment so 
solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His 
youth liad not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by in- 
temperance. He had been all his life a close and deep 
reader, as well as thinker ;. and, by the force of his own 
powers, had wrought up the raw materials, whicli he had 
gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity, 
that he had added a hundred fold to their original value, 
and justly made them his own. 



An Apparition. — Club-Room. 

The sun was hastening to a glorious setting as I gained 
the last hill that overlooks the forest; and, late as it was, 1 
paused to gaze once more on this most brilliant and touch- 
ing of the wonders of nature. The glories of the western 
sky lasted long after the moon was in full splendour in the 
east ; on one side all was rich and warm with departing 
day — on the other how pure and calm was the approach 
of night ! If 1 had been born a heathen, I think 1 could 
not have seen the setting sun, without believing myself 
immortal : who, that had never seen the morning dawn, 
could believe that wonderful orb, which sinks so slowly 
and majestically through a sea of light, throw^ing up beams 
of a thousand hues, melting and mingling together, touch- 
ing the crest of the clouds with fire, and streaming over 
ihe heavens with broad brilliancy, up to the zenith — then 
retiring from sight, and gradually drawing his beams after 
him, till their last faint blush is extinguished in the cold, 
uniform tints of moonlight — who could believe that source 
of light had perished ? Who then could believe that the 
being, v/ho gazes on that magnificent spectacle with such 
emotion, and draws from it such high conclusions of his 
own nature and destiny, is even more perishable ? 

I remained absorbed in such reflections till the twilight 
was ahnost gone. I then began rapidly to descend, and, 
leaving the moon behind the hill, entered the long dark 
shadow it threw over the wood at its foot. It was gloomy 
md chill — the faint lingering of day was hidden by the 



COMxMON-PLACE BOOK OF P/IOSE. 15 

trees, and the moon seemed to have set again, throwing 
only a distant light on the rich volumes of clouds that hung 
over her. As 1 descended farther, the air became colder, 
the sky took a deeper blue, and the stars shone with a 
wintry brightness. The thoughts which came tenderly 
over me, by the light of the setting sun, now grew dark 
and solemn ; and 1 felt how fleeting and unsatisfactory are 
the hopes built on the analogies of nature. The sun sets 
so beautifully it seems impossible it should not rise again ; 
out in the gloom of midnight, where is the promise of the 
morrow ? In the cold, but still beautiful, features of the 
dead, we think we see the pledge of a resurrection; but 
what hope of life is there in the dust to which they crum- 
ble ? 

I arrived late at the inn. It was a large and ruinous 
structure, which had once been a castle, but the family of 
its owner had perished in disgrace : their title was extin- 
guished, their lands confiscated and sold, and their name 
now almost forgotten. It stood on a small bare hill in the 
midst of the forest, which it overtopped, only to lose its 
shelter and shade, for from it the eye could not reach 
the extremity of the wood. I knocked long before I was 
admitted ; at last an old man came to the door with a lan- 
tern, and, without a word of welcome, led my horse to the 
stable, leaving me to find my way into the house. Tiia 
spirit of the place seemed to have infected its inhabitants, 
I entered a kitchen, whose extent I could not see by the 
dim fire-light, and, having stirred the embers, sat down to 
warm me. The old man soon returned, and showed ma 
up the remains of a spacious staircase, to a long hall, in a 
corner of which was my bed. I extinguished the light, and 
.ay down without undressing ; but the thoughts and scenes 
of the evening had taken strong hold of my mind, and 1 
could not sleep. I did not feel troubled, but there was an 
intensity of thought and feeling within me, that seemed 
waiting for some great object on which to expend itself. 
1 ro?e. and walked to the window : the moon was shining 
beautifully bright, but the forest was so thick that her light 
only glanced on the tops of the trees, and showed nothing 
distinctly — all was silent and motionless — not a breeze, not 
a sound, not a cloud — the earth was dim and undistinguisb- 



16 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

able, the heavens were filled with a calm light, and the 
moon seemed to stand still in the midst. 1 know not how 
long I remained leaning against the window and gazing 
upward, for 1 was dreaming of things long past, of which 
I was then, though I knew it not, the only living witness ; 
when my attention was suddenly recalled by the low but 
distinct sound of some one breathing near me — I turned 
with a sudden thrill of fear, but saw nothing ; and, as the 
sound had ceased, I readily believed it was fancy. I soon 
relapsed into my former train of thought, and had forgot- 
ten the circumstance, when I was again startled by a 
sound I could not mistake — there was some one breathing 
at my very ear — so terribly certain was the fact that I did 
not move even my eyes ; it was not the deep, regular breath 
of one asleep, nor the quick panting of guilt, but a quiet, 
gentle respiration ; I remained listening till I could doubt 
no longer, and then turned slowly round, that I might not 
be overpowered by the suddenness of the sight, which J 
knew I must meet — again there v/as nothing to be seen — 
the moon shone broad into the long desolate chamber, and, 
though there was a little gathering of shadow in the cor- 
ners, I am sure nothing visible could have escaped the 
keenness of my gaze, as I looked again and again along 
the dark wainscot. My calmness now forsook me, and, aj 
I turned fearfully back to the window, my hand brushed 
against the curtain, whose deep folds hid the corner near 
which I was standing — the blood gushed to my heart with 
a sharp pang, and 1 involuntarily dashed my hands forward 
— they passed through against the damp wall, and the tide 
of life rolled back, leaving me hardly able to support my- 
self. I stood a few moments lost in fear and wonder — - 
when the breathing began again, and there — in the bright 
moonlight — I felt the air driven against my face by a being 
1 could not see. I sat down on the bed in great agitation, 
aul „ was a considerable time before I could at all com- 
pose my mind — the fact was certain, but the cause inscru- 
iable. I rose, and walked across the chamber. 

I made three or four turns, and gradually recovered my 
tranquillity, though still impressed with the belief that what 
I had heard was no natural sound. I was not now in a 
State to be easily deluded, for niy senses were on the alert. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 17 

but my mind perfectly calm. The old floor groaned under 
every tread, but the noise excited in me no alarm ; I did 
not even turn when the planks sprung and cracked behind 
me long after my foot had left them. But, good God ! 
what were my feelings when I heard distinct footsteps fol- 
lowing my own ! the light tread of naked feet — I stopped 
instantly, jusl as I had made a step — the tread ceased, and 
a moment after I heard a foot brought up zjs if to support 
the walker in this unexpected pause — Could it be echo ? — 
I struck my foot upon the floor — the sound was short and 
sullen, and was not repeated — I walked on, but the steps 
did not follov/ — I turned, and paused again — all was still. 
I walked back, and as I reached the spot where the sounds 
had ceased — whether I heard or saw it I cannot tell — ^but 
something passed me, and a soft sigh floated along with it, 
dying away in distance like the moaning of a gentle wind. 
It was indistinct as it passed, but as I listened to catch its 
last lingering, I knew the voice of Gertrude ! — " Her- 
mann!" it said, in a tone so tender and mournful, that my 
eyes filled with tears, and I seemed to hear it long after it 
had ceased. " Gertrude 1" I cried aloud — the same sweet 
sigh answered me, and for an instant I caught the dark 
beam of her eye — there was no form, but 1 saw her own 
look — that deep melancholy gaze — it was but a moment, 
and- it was gone. "Gertrude!" I cried again, " if it be 
thou, do not fly me — come to me, beloved !" A pause of 
deeper silence followed ; my eyes were fixed on the air 
where I had lost her, when the shadows at the extremity 
of the chamber began to move like the waving of a gar- 
ment; their motion at first was indefinite and hardly per- 
ceptible, but g^radually increased till they parted and rolled 
away, leaving a brighter space in the middle. This had at 
first no determinate form, but soon began to assume the 
outline of a human figure. I shall never forget the sensa- 
tion of that -r^oment — my hair rose, my flesh crept, and 
drops of sweat rolled fast down my cheeks ; yet it was not 
fear — I cannot describe the emotion with which I watched 
the figure growing more and more distinct ; and even when 
I saw the face of my own Gertrude, all thougl ts of earth 
were swallowed up in those of eternity — 1 stood in the 
presence oi a spirit, and felt myself immortal 1 The 



18 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

triumph was short — it was too like herself — the eyes were 
closed, but it was her own graceful form, though attenu- 
ated and almost transparent — her own face — pale and lan- 
guid, but oh, how beautiful ! — at last the eyes opened — 
they alone were unchanged, and they gazed on me with a 
tenderness I could not bear — 1 sunk on my knees, and hid 
my face — I felt her approach — I did not raise my eyes, but 
[ knew she was near me by a glow of more than human 
happiness — a hand was laid upon my head — '' Hermann !" 
said the same sweet voice, " dear Hermann ! but one 
year more !" — and the sound floated away. I looked up— 
she was already disappearing — she smiled on me, and the 
form faded, and the shadows gathered over it. 

I had sunk on the floor exhausted ; the first feeling I 
remember was one of unutterable gri'^f and loneliness ; 
but the next was joy at the thought th.t I was not to en- 
dure it long — " but one year more, arJ I shall be with thee 
forever" — I could not feel more certain of any fact of my 
own experience, than that Gertrude was dead, and 1 should 
soon follow. 

I paced the chamber till day-break, and then watched 
the sky till the sun rose. I was in no haste to be gone, 
for I had but a short day's journey before me, and did not 
wish to arrive before night. I remained in my chamber 
till the rao.ning mists were dispersed, and then began my 
journey. I rode slowly all day, musing and abstracted, and 
hardly noticing the objects around me, till I reached the 
brow of a hill beneath which lay the village of Underwal- 
den — a few simple buildings gathered close round the 
church whose spire just rose above the trees ; beyond was 
the gentle slope of green hills parted only by hawthorn 
hedges ; and still further on, the home of my Gertrude, can- 
opied by tall ancient elms, and gleaming in the yellow light 
of the setting sun. 

If I had had no other reason, I should have foreboded 
evil from the silence of the hour — it is always a quiet time, 
but it has a few sounds that harmonize with its solemnity — 
the lowing of the cattle, the whistle of the returning la- 
bourer, or the distant merriment of the children released 
from school, come naturally with the close of day — but 
now the cattle were gathered home, snd the labourer had 



COMMON PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 19 

C;f\ the field before the usuul hour, the school was shut, 
6r.d the village green silent and solitary. A few of the 
better class of villagers, in their decent sabbath dress, vera 
walking over the hill toward the mansion ; others, Avith 
their wives and children, were standing round the gate of 
ihe church-yard, and there was something mournful in the 
motions and attitudes of all. I knew well wha^ all this 
meant, but I gazed on it with a vacant mind, and without 
any new conviction of my desolate lot. I even saw with 
3 sad pleasure the bePiUty of a landscape, which, like all the 
world, was nothing not/ to me. But this did not last long 
— suddenly there was a hum of voices, and a stir among 
those who had beca waiting at the church — the bell tolled, 
a faint chart sv/Ulcd from behind the hill, and the proces- 
sion came sl.>wiy 'p. sight. Then the truth fell on me with 
an overpoweriiij wsijht; I threw myself on the ground, 
and looked on T.ith a bursting heart, till all I had loved 
v/as forever hidd-^n from sight. — Farewell, my friend ! I 
am going to Rcir.': f^r a few months, for it is the seat of 
my religion, z.\C I "vfould Icok once more before I die 
on the mighticji r*,niains of earth. I have watched the 
fall of the last i-jiives in Underwalden ; I shall return to 
see them put fcrth tace more, but when they fall again, 
they will cover the grave of Hermann 



Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of 
Devotion. — Buckminster. 

No situation in life is so favourable to established habits 
of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a resi- 
dence in the country, and rural occupations. 1 am not 
gpeaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, ia this 
fjcuntry, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an ab- 
ptnt lord, or the hired labourers of an intends at, and vrho 
are therefore interested in nothing but the regular iDr^eipt 
of their daily wages ; but I refer to the hcnanrabln ch2,rac- 
ter of an owner of the soil, v/hose comforts, V7ri033 weight 
in the community, and whose very existence, dcpoiid iip,*>a 
his personal labours, and the regular returns cf the abua* 



20 C05i5ION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

dance from the soil which he cultivates/- No man, cue 
would think, would feel so sensibly his imniediate depend- 
ence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar 
blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty 
of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him ana 
his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession 
jf the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial 
warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soilj 
and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which 
must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions 
of omuipresent energyr"-^n the coar-try we seem to stand 
in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we 
feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and 
ti-anquil sky spreads itself over our headsj :;iid"Te acknowl- 
edge the inti'usion of no secondary sgant xix \infolding this 
vast expanse. Nothing but OmnipotSi.c* eaa vv-ork up the 
dark horrors of tlie tempest, dart the fla^Iies of the light- 
ning, and roll the long-rescuading rumcur of the tliunder. 
The breeze wafts to his senses the od/arj cf God's beneij- 
cence ; the voice of God's power ij Lend m the rustling 
of the forest ; and the varied ferine of liie, activity, aud 
pleasure, which he observes at every ctep in the firiids, 
lead him irresistibly, one would tLIiik. iu the Source of 
be ng, and beauty, and joyr^J'How auspicious such a life 
to the noble sentiments of devotion ! Besides, the sicuaticn 
of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should seem, 
to purit^^ and simplicity of moral sentimect. He is brought 
acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind. 
Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is 
not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the 
unnatural wants, the fashionable folhes, and tyrannical vices 
of more busy and splendid life. 

Stiil more favourable to the religious character of the 
Lusbandmaa is the circumstance, that, from the nature of 
agricultural pursiiits, they do not so completely engross 
the act-^nt^xn as Oiher occupations. They leave much 
tSmo tor co.iteinylatlon, for reading, and intellectual pleas- 
ures • aud ^ifa^e are peculiarly grateful to the uesident in 
thrj ecu aii-y //Especially does the institution of tl- e Sabbath 
iacov&r ftirfts value to the tiller of the earth, whose fa- 
iiguc ic sulaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 2i 

f«^ol5!, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which " 
cauTict be understood by the busy man, who considers the 
repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gam, or ; 
professional employments. If, then, this institution is of 
any moral and religious value, it is to the country we must 
look for the continuance of that respect and observance, 
which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially, 
who retire annually into the country, let these periodical 
retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to 
your God; let them restore the clearness of your judg- 
ment on the objects of human pursuit, invigorate you'* / 
moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your / 
habits of devotion ; and, if there be any virtue or simplici- 
ty remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired 
by the influence of your presence and example. 



Reciprocal Injiuence of Morals and Literature. — 
Frisbie. 

In no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal in- 
fluence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than 
in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character 
produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his po- 
ems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes 
speak a languJige supplied not more by imagination than 
consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a 
contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own ; 
but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, 
in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sym- 
pathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misan- 
thropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his 
poetry, like one of his own ruined castles ; we feel it to 
be sublhne, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot 
have til. it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and 
peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become 
the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more 
tender and affectionate passages those to which we can 
yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is 
not that we 3an here an;] there select a proposition formally 



L-' 



22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

false ani pernicious; but he leaves an iiiipressi''a uxi^a* 
vourable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, pecu- 
liarly dangerous to the finest minds and most su^coptib'e 
hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where 
all is tender, and beautiful, and grand ; but the damps of 
disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent 
vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance and 
balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the 
exposure. 

Although 1 have illustrated the moral influence of liter- 
ature principally from its mischiefs, yet it is obvious, if 
what I have said be just, it may be rendered no less pow- 
erful as a means of good. Is it not true that within the 
last century a decided and important improvement in the 
moral character of our literature has taken place ? and, had 
Pope and Smollett written at the present day, would the 
former have published the imiiations of Chaucer, or the 
latter the adventures of Pickie and Random ? Genius 
cannot now sanctify impurity or want of principle ; and 
our critics and reviewers ai-e exercising jurisdiction not 
cnly upon the literary, but moral blemishes of the authors 
who come before them. We notice with peculiar pleasure 
the sentence of just indignation which the Edinburgh tri- 
bunal has pronounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and, in 
general, the German sentimentalists. Indeed, the foun- 
tains of literature, into which an enemy has sometimes in- 
fused poison, naturally flow with refreshment and health. 
Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to repose in the 
bowers of religion and virtue ; and Miss Edgeworth has so 
cautiously combined the features of her characters, that 
the predominant expression is ever what it should be. She 
has shown us not vices ennobled by virtues, but virtues de- 
graded and perverted by their union with vices. The suc- 
cess of this lady has been great ; but, had she availed her- 
self more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we 
think it would have been greater. She has stretched 
forth a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had 
she added, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Naz- 
areth, we should almost have expected miracles from iti 
louche 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 23 



JUv&ning Scenes on the St. Lawrence. — Sillimaic. 

From the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes 
silent on the shore, which our window^s overlook, and the 
murmurs of tlie broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles 
wide immediately before us, " and, a little way to the 
right, spreading to five or six miles in breadth, are some- 
times for an hour the only sounds that arrest our attention. 
Every evening since we have been here, black clouds and 
splendid moonlight have hung over, and embellished this 
tranquil scene ; and on two of these evenings we have 
been attracted to the window, by the plaintive Canadian 
boat-scng. In one instance, it arose from a solitary voya- 
ger, floating in his light canoe, which occasionally appear- 
ed and disappeared on the sparkling river, and in its distant 
course seemed no larger than some sportive insect. In 
another instance, a larger boat, with more numerous and 
less melodious voices, not indeed in perfect harmony, pass- 
ed nearer to the shore, and gave additional life to the scene - 
A few moments after, the moon broke out from a throne 
of dark clouds, and seemed to convert the whole expanse 
of water into one vast sheet of glittering silver ; and, in 
the very brightest spot, at the distance of more than a mile, 
again appeared a solitary boat, but too distant to admit of 
our hearing the song, with which the boatman was proba- 
bly solacing his lonely course. 



Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia. — 

Frak-klin. 

I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and 
ihall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this 
city, that you rnajr be able to compare beginnings so little 
auspicious with the figure I have since made. 

On my arrival at Phiiadelphia, I was in my working 
dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was cover- 
ed with dirt ; my pockets were filled with shirt? and stock- 
ing- ; I was unacquamted with a single soul in the pJacn, 



24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Mid knew not v^here to seek a lodging. Fatigued \vith 
walking, rowing, and having passed the night without 
sleep, 1 was extremely hungry, and all my money consist- 
ed of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of cop- 
pers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As 1 
had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first ; but I 
insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more gen- 
erous when he has little than when he has much money -, 
probably because, in the first case, he is desirous of con- 
ceahng his poverty. 

I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly 
on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met 
with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my 
dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it, 
and went straight to the baker's shop, which he pointed out 
to me. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such 
as we had at Boston ; but they made, it seems, none of that 
sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenn^-^ loai. 
They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself igno- 
rant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds of bread, 1 
desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of 
some kind or other. He gave me three large rolls. I was 
surprised at receiving so much : I took them, however, and, 
having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under 
each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went through 
Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. 
Read, the father of my future v*ife. She was standing at 
the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that i 
made a very singular and grotesque appearance. 

I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut 
Street, eating my roll all the way ; and,, having made this 
round, 1 found myself again on Market Street wharf, near 
the boat in which I arrived. 1 stepped into it to take a 
draught of the river v/ater ; and, finning mj^self satisfied 
with my first roll, I gave the other two to a wciTian and 
her child, who had come down with ns in the bo?.t, and 
was waiting to continue her Journe3^ Thus refreshed, ] 
regained the street, which was now full of well-dressod 
people, all going the same way. I joined them, and wj3 
tt'.us led to a large Quakers' meeting-hous3 near the mar- 
ket place I sat down with the rest, and, after looking 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 25 

round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being 
drowsy from my last night's labour and want of rest, I fell 
into a sound sleep. In this state I continued till the as- 
sembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the 
goodness to wake me. This was consequently the first 
house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia. 



Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Midge. — 
Jefferson. 

The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, 
is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. 
You stand on a very high point of land. On your right 
comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot 
of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your 
left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In 
the moment of their junction, they rush together against 
the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 
The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the 
opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
mountains were formed first ; that the rivers began to flow 
afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been 
dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have 
formed an ocean which filled the whole valley ; that, con- 
tinuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, 
and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its 
base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on 
the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and 
avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of 
nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finish- 
ing, which Nature has given to the picture, is of a very dif- 
f<^rent character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. 
It ir as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. 
For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to 
your eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue 
horizon, at an ini&nite distance in the plain country, invit- 
ing you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, 
to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm be- 
low. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that 
3 



23 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

W^y, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cioss .hfl 
Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through 
the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precU 
pices hanging in fragments over you, and within ati-at 
twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country 
round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the At- 
lantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the Natu- 
ral Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within 
half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these 
monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which 
must have shaken the earth itself to its centre. 



Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred 
Scriptures. — Waylaistd. 

As to the powerful, I had almost said miraculous, effect of 
the Sacred Scriptures, there can no longer be a doubt in 
the mind of any one on whom fact can make an impression. 
That the truths of the Bible have the power of awakening 
an intense moral feeling in man under every variety of 
character, learned or ignorant, civilized or savage ; that they 
make bad men good, and send a pulse of healthful feeling 
through all the domestic, civil, and social relations ; that they 
teach men to love right, to hate wrong, and to seek each 
other's welfare, as the children of one common parent ; 
that they control the baleful passions of the human heart, 
and thus make men proficients in the science of self-gov- 
ernment ; and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after a 
conformity to a Being of infinite holiness, and fill hiw with 
hopes infinitely more purifying, more exalting, more ^uited 
to his nature, than any other, which this world has evej 
known, — are facts incontrovertible as the la-vys of philoso- 
phy, or the demonstra^^ions of mathematics./ Evidence in 
support of all this can be brought from every age, in the 
history of man, since there has been a revelation from God 
on earth. We see the proof of it every where around ns. 
There is scarcely a neighbourhood in our country, where 
the Bible is circulated, in which we cannot foint you to a 
very considerable portion of its population, whom its trufhs 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 27 

nave reclaimed from the practice of vice, and taught the 
practice of whatsoever things are pure, and honest, and 
just, and of good report. 

That this distinctive and peculiar effect is produced upon 
every man to whom the Gospel is announced, we pretend 
not to affirm. But we do aifirm, that, besides producing 
this special renovation, to which Vi^e have alluded, upon a 
part, it, in a most remarkable degree, elevates the tone 
of moral feeling throughout the whole community, 
Wherever the Bible is freely circulated, and its doctrines 
carried home to the understandings of men, the aspect of 
society is altered ; the frequency of crime is diminished ; 
men begin to love justice, and to administer it by law ; and 
a virtuous public opinion, that strongest safeguard of right, 
spreads over a nation the shield of its invisible protection. 
' Wherever it has faithfully been brought to bear upon the 
human heart, even under most unpromising circumstances, 
it has, within a single generation, revolutionized the whole 
.structure of society ; and thus, within a few years, done 
more for man than all other means have for ages accom- 
plished without it. For proof of all this, I need only refer 
you to the effects of the Gospel irk Greenland, or in South 
Africa, in the Society Islands, or even among the aborigi- 
nes of our own country. 

But, before we leave this part of the subject, it may be 
well to pause for a moment, and inquire whether, in addi- 
tion to its moral efficacy, the Bible may not exert a pow- 
erful influence upon the intellectual character of man. 

And here it is scarcely necessary that I should remark, 
that, of all the books with which, since the invention of 
writhig, this world has been deluged, the number of those 
Is very small which have produced any perceptible effect on 
the mass of human character. By far the greater part have 
been, even by their cotemporaries, unnoticed and unknown. 
Not many a one has made its little mark upon the genera- 
tion that produced it, though it sunk with that generation 
to utter forgetfulness. But, after the ceaseless toil of six 
thousand years, how few have been the works, the adaman- 
tine basis of whose reputation has stood unhurt an:iid the 
fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced 
through successive centuries, on the history of our specie? 



28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

When, however, such a work appears, its effects are a^- 
•Jolutely incalculable ; and such a work, you are aware, ia 
the Iliad of Homer. Who can estimate the resulta 
produced by the incomparable efforts of a single nr.nd , 
Who can tell what Greece owes to llii- lir.st.-Lorn of son? ? 
Her breathing marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled 
eloquence, and her matchless verse, all poini us to that 
transcendent genius, who, by the very splendour of hi? 
own effulgence, woke the human intellect from the slum- 
ber of ages. It was Homer who gave laws to the artist ; 
it was Homer who inspired the poet ; it was Homer who 
thundered in the senate ; and, more than all, it was Ho- 
mer who was sung by the people ; and hence a nation 
was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, and the land 
of the Iliad became the region of taste, the birth-place of 
the arts. 

Nor was this influence confined within the limits of 
Greece. Long after the sceptre of empire had passea 
westward. Genius still held her court on the banks of the 
Ilyssus, and from the country of Homer gave laws to the 
world. The light, which the blind old man of Scio had 
kindled in Greece, shed its radiance over Italy; and thus 
did he awaken a second nation into intellectual existence. 
And we may form some idea of the power which this one 
work has to the present day exerted over the mind of man, 
by remarking, that " nation after nation, and century after 
century, has been able to do little more than transpose 
his incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his 
sentiments." 

But, considered simply as an intellectual production, 
who will compare the poems of Homer with the Ho\y 
Scriptures of the Old and New Testament ? Where in 
the Iliad shall we find simplicity and pathos which shall 
vie with the narrative of Moses, or maxims of conduct to 
equal in wisdom the Proverbs of Solomon, or sublimitj' 
which dees not fade away before the conceptions of Job or 
David, of Isaiah cr St. John ? But I cannot pursue this 
comparison. I feel that it is doing wrong to the mind 
which dictated the Iliad, and to those other mighty intel- 
lects on whom the liiht of the holy oracles never sliineil. 
Who that has read his poernlias ncr observed how lie strove 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 29 

In vain to give dignity to the mythology of his time ? Who 
has not seen how the reUgion of his country, unaljle lo 
support the flight of his imagination, sunk powerless be- 
neath him ? It is the unseen world, where the master spir- 
its of our race breathe freely, and are at home ; and it is 
mournful to behold the intellect of Homer striving to free 
itself from the conceptions of materialism, and then sink- 
ing down in hopeless despair, to weav/e idle tales about 
Jupiter and Juno, Apollo and Diana. But the difficulties 
under which he laboured are abundantly illustrated by the 
fact, that the light, which he poured upon the human intel- 
lect, taught other ages how unworthy was the religion of 
his day of the man who was compelled to use it. " it 
seems to me," says Longinus, " that Homer, when he de- 
scribes dissensions, jealousies, tears, imprisonments, and 
other afflictions to his deities, hath, as much as was in his 
power, made the men of the Iliad gods, and the gods men. 
To man, when afflicted, death is the termination of evils ; 
but he hath made not only the nature, but the miseries, of 
the gods eternal." 

If, then, so great results have flowed from this one ef- 
fort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the com- 
bined efforts of several, at least his equals in power over 
the human heart? If that one genius, though groping in 
the thick darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious 
a transformation in the character of his countrymen, what 
may we not look for from the universal dissemination of 
those writings, on whose authors was poured the full splen- 
dour of eternal truth ? If unassisted human nature, spell- 
bound by a childish mythology, have done so much, what 
m.ay we not hope for from the supernatural efforts of pre- 
eminent genius, which spake as it was moved by the Holy 
Ghost V * 



Character of Washington. — Ames. 

There has scarcely appeared a really great man, whose 
character has been more admired in his life time, or lesa 
correctly understood by his admirers. When it is compre- 
3* 



30 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

hended, ii is no easy task to delineate its excellencies n 
such a nianner as to give to the portrait both interest and 
resemblance ; for it requires thought and study to under- 
stand the true ground of the superiority of his character 
over many others, whom he resembled in the principles cf 
action, and even in the manner of acting But perhaps he 
excels all the great men that ever lived in the steadiness 
of his adherence to his maxims of life, and in the uniformity 
of all his conduct to the same maxims. These maxims, 
though wise, were yet not so remarkable for their wisdom, as 
for their authority over his life ; for, if there were any er- 
rors in his judgment, (and he discovered as few as any 
man,) we know of no blemishes in his virtue He was the 
patriot without reproach ; he loved his country well enough 
to hold his success in serving it an ample recompense. Thus 
far self-love and love of country coincided ; but when his 
country needed sacrifices that no other man could, or per- 
haps would, be willing to make, he did not even hesitate. 
This was virtue in its most exalted character. More than 
once he put his fame at hazard, when he had reason to 
think it would be sacrificed, at least in this age. Two in- 
stances cannot be denied; when the army was disbanded, 
and again, when he stood, like Leonidas at the pass of Ther- 
mopylse, to defend our independence against France. 

It is, indeed, almost as difficult to draw his character, as 
the portrait of Virtue. The reasons are similar : our ideas 
of moral excellence are obscure, because they are com- 
plex, and we are obliged to resort to illustrations. Wash- 
ington's example is the happiest to show what virtu is; 
and, to delineate his character, we naturally expatiate on 
the beai'ty of virtue ; much must be felt, and much ima- 
gined. His pre-eminence is not so much to be seen in the 
display of any one virtue, as in the possession of them all, 
and in the practice of the most difficult. Hereafter, there- 
fore, his character must be studied before it will be strik- 
ing ; and then it will be admitted as a model, a precious 
one to a free republic. 

It is no less difficult to speak of his talents. They were 
adapted to lead, without dazzling mankind ; and to draw 
forth and employ the talents of others, without being mis- 
led by them. In this he was certainly superior, that he 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ti 

neitVier mistook nor misapplied his own. His great raodesiy 
and reserve would have concealed them, if great occasiuui 
had not called them forth ; and then^ as he never spoke 
from the affectation to shine, nor acted from any sinister 
motives, it is from their effects only that we are to judge of 
their greatness and extent. In public trusts, where men, 
acting conspicuously, are cautious, and in those private 
concerns where few conceal or resist their weaknesses, 
Washington was uniformly great, pursuing right conduct 
from right maxims. His talents were such as assist a sound 
judgment, and ripen with it. His prudence was consum- 
mate, and seemed to take the direction of his powers and 
passions ; for, as a soldier, he was more solicitous to avoid 
mistakes that might be fatal, than to' perform exploits that 
are brilliant ; and, as a statesman, to adhere to just princi- 
ples, however old, than to pursue novelties ; and therefore, 
in both characters, his qualities were singularly adapted to 
the interest, and were tried in the greatest perils of the 
country. His habits of inquiry were so far remarkable, that 
he was never satisfied with investigating, nor desisted from 
it, so long as he had less than all the light that he could obtain 
upon a subject, and then he made his decision without bias 
This command over the partialities that so generally stop 
men short, or turn them aside in their pursuit of truth, is 
one of the chief causes of his unvaried course of right 
conduct in so many difficult scenes, where every human 
actor must be presumed to err. If he had strong passions, 
ho had learned to subdue them, and to be moderate and 
mild. If he had weaknesses, he concealed them, which 
is rare, and excluded them from the government of his 
temper and conduct, which is still more rare. If he loved 
fame, he never made improper compliances for what is 
called popularity. The fame he enjoyed is of the kind 
that will last forever ; yet it was rather the effect, than the 
motive of his conduct. Some future Plutarch will search 
for a parallel to his character. Epaminondas is perhaps the 
brightest name of all antiquity Our Washington resem- 
bled him in the purity and ardour of his patriotism ; and 
like him he first exalted the glory of his countrjr. There, 
H is to be hoped, the parallel ends ; for Thebsfl fell with 
Epam'iondas. — But such comparisons cannot ^^s pursued 



82 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

far without departing from the similitude. For we sliall 
find it as difficult to compare great men as great rivers. 
Some we admire for the length and rapidity of their cur- 
rent, and the grandeur of their cataracts; others for the 
majestic silence and fulness of their streams : we cannot 
bring them together to measure the difference of thei? 
waters. The unamhitious life of Washington, declining 
fame, yet courted by it, seemed, like the Ohio, to choose 
its long way through solitudes, diffusing fertility ; or, like 
his own Potomac, widening and deepening his channel 
as he approaches the sea, and displaying most the useful- 
ness and serenity of his greatness towards the end of his 
course. Such a citizen would do honour to any country. 
The constant affection and veneration of his country will 
show, that it was worthy of such a citizen. 

However his military fame may excite the wonder of 
m.ankind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy, that his ex- 
ample will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in 
ail ages of the world, and perhaps most in those of despot- 
ism and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion, 
they rise, by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to 
ride in it, and direct the storm. Like meteors, they glare 
on the black clouds with a splendour, that, while it dazzles 
and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The 
fame of heroes is indeed growing vulgar ; they multiply 
in every long war ; they stand in history, and thicken in 
their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers. 

But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears, like the 
pole star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful statesman. His 
presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the 
age of Washington. Already it assumes its high place in 
the political region. Like the milky way, it whitens along 
its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest genera- 
tions of men will survey, through the telescope of history, 
the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and de- 
Ught to separate them into groups and distinct virtues. As 
the best illustration of them, the living monument to which 
the first of patriots would have chosen to consign his fame 
it is my earnest prayer to Heaven that our country may 
subsist, even to that late day, in the plenitude of its libeity 
fend happines?, and mingle its mild glory with Washington's 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 38 



Laiours of periodical Composition. — Idle Maw. 

I KNOW that it is an arduous undertaking, for one whose 
mind rarely feels the spring of bodily health bearhig it up, 
whose frame is soon worn by mental labour, and who can 
seldom go to his task with that hopeful sense sustaining 
h'.m, which a vigorous and clear spirit gives to the soul. To 
kncT that our hour for toil is come, and that we are weak 
and unprepared ; to feel that depression or lassitude is 
weighing us down, when we must feign lightness and 
mirth ; or to mock our secret griefs with show of others 
not akin, must be the fate of him who labours in such a 
work. This is not all. When our work is done, and well 
done, the excitement which the employment had given us 
is gone, the spirits sink down, and there is a dreadful void 
in the mind. We feel as powerless as infancy till pushed 
to the exertion of our powers again ; even great success has 
it.5 terrors. We fear that we shall never do so well again ; 
and know how churlishly the world receives from us that 
which will not bear a comparison with what we have given 
them before. 

Yet these sufferings have their rewards. To bear up 
against ill health by a sudden and strong effort, to shake off 
low spirits, and drive away the mists which lie thick and 
heavy upon the mind, gives a new state of being to the 
soul cheerful as the light. To sit at home in our easy 
cnair, and send our gay thoughts abroad, as it were, on 
wings to thousands — to imagine them laughing over the 
odd fancies and drolleries which had made us vain and 
happy in secret, multiplies and spreads our sympathies qui- 
etly and happily through the world. In this way, too, we 
can pour out before the world thoughts which had never 
been laid open even to a friend ; and make it feel our mel- 
ancholy, and bear our griefs, while we still sit in the secret 
of our ?ouls. The heart tells its story abroad, yet loses not 
it8 delicacy : it l.\ys itself bare, but is still sen&tive. 



S4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



Industry necessary to the Attainment of Eloquence — ■ 
Ware. 

The history of the world is full of testimony to prove 
how much depends upon industry ; not an eminent orator 
has lived but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to 
all this, the almost universal feeling appeal's to be, that in- 
dustiy can effect nothmg, that eminence is the result oi 
accident, and that every one must be content to remain just 
what he may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who come 
forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be sat- 
isfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable 
mediocrity, without so much as inquiring how they may 
rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise. For 
any other art they would have served an apprenticeship, 
and would be ashamed to practise it in public before they 
had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a mas- 
ter, and is drilled in the very elementary principles ; and 
only after the most laborious process dares to exercise his 
voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any 
thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lie? 
in sensible forms before the eye. But the extempore speak- 
er, who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an opera- 
tion of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon the 
work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that 
he fails ! If he were learning to play on the flute for pub- 
lic exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giv- 
ing facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the 
sweetest and most expressive execution ! If he were de- 
voting himself to the organ, what months and years would 
he labour, that he might know its compass, and be master 
nf its keys, and be able to draw out, at will, all its variota 
combinations of harmonious sound, and its full richness arc 
delicacy of expression ! And yet he will fancy that the 
grandest, the most various and most expressive of all instru- 
ments, winch the iafmlte Creator has fashioned by the ui-ion 
of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech, may be 
played upon without study or practice ; he comes to it a 
mere uninstructed tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops, 
and com n and the whole compass of its varad and cora- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 35 

prehensive power ! He finds himself a bungler in the at- 
tempt, is mortified at his failure, and settles it in his mind 
forever, that the attempt is vain. 

Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, 
is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in- 
stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, 
whose beginning has promised much, but who have de- 
generated wretchedly as they advanced, because they 
trusted to their gifts, and made no efforts to improve. That 
there have never been other men of equal endowments 
with Demosthenes and Cicero, none would venture to sup- 
pose ; ,but who have so devoted themselves to their art, or 
become equal in excellence ? If those great men had been 
content, like others, to continue as they began, and had 
never made their persevering efforts for improvement, what 
would their countries have benefited from their genius, or 
the world have known of their fame ? They would have 
been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sunk to oblivion 
around them. Of how many more will the same remark 
prove true ! What encouragement is thus given to the 
industrious ! With such encouragement, how inexcusable 
is the negligence, which suffers the most interesting and 
important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffec- 
tual to the ground, through mere sluggishness in their de- 
livery ! How unworthy of one, who performs the high 
functions of a religious instructer, upon whom depend, in a 
great measure, the religious knowledge, and devotional 
sentiments, and final character, of many fellow-beings, — 
to imagine, that he can worthily discharge this great con- 
cern, by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not 
now, and in a manner which he has taken no pains to ren- 
der correct, impressive, and attractive ; and which, simply 
through want of that command over himself, which study 
would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, feeble, 
trifling It has been said of the good preacher, that " truths 
divine come mended from his tongue." Alas ' they come 
ruined and worthless from such a man as this. They lose 
that holy energy, by which they are to convert the soul and 
purify man for heaven, and sink, in interest and efficacy 
below the level of those priiiciples, which govern the ordi- 
nary affairs of this lower world 



36 COMM«.N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



Ingratitude towards the Deity. — Appletox. 

Perhaps there is no crime which finds fewer advoc2.te< 
than ingratitude. Persons accused of this may deny thr 
charge, but they never attempt to justify the disposition 
They never say that there is no obliquity and demerit ia 
being unmindful of benefits. If a moral fitness is discern* 
ible on any occasion, it is so on an occasion of favours be- 
stowed and received. In proportion to these favours is 
the degree of cemerit attached to ingratitude. AgreeaJile 
to this is the sei tence so often quoted from Publius Syr«s, 
'• Omne dixeris i.\aledictum, quum- ingraturaiiominem dix- 
*ris." 

With what fee.ings do we receive and enjoy favours 
bestowed by our C eator ! Our dependence on him is ab- 
solute and universal Existence is not more truly his gift, 
than are all those objects, which render existence valuable.^ 
To his munificence are we indebted for intellectual powers, 
and the means for their cultivation ; for the sustenance 
daily provided ; for the enjoyments derived from the ac- 
tive and varying scenes of the day, and from the rest and 
tranquillity of the night. ' His gifts are the relations and 
friends, whom we love, and from whose affection to us so 
considerable a part of the joy of life is derived. His are 
the showers which moisten, and the sun which warms the 
earth. From Him are the pleasures and animation of 
spring, and the riches of harvest — all, that satisfies the ap- 
petite, supports or restores the animal system, gratifies the 
ear, or charms the eye. With what emotions, let it be 
askod, are all these objects viewed, and these blessings en- 
•oyed ? Is it the habit of man to acknowledge God in his 
works, and to attribute all his pleasures and security of life 
10 the Creator's munificence ?^ Possession and prosperity 
are enjoyed not as a gift to the undeserving, but as the re- 
sult of chance or good fortune, or as the merited reward of 
our own prudence and effort. Were gratitude a trait in the 
human cliaracter, it would be proportionate to obligation ; 
and where much is received much would be acknowledged. 
In this the li\'elie5t sense of obligation would be exhibited 
anions the wealthy, and those whose prosperity had beep 



COMMOI^PLACE BOOK OF PAOSE. 37 

long ^xxd uninterrupted. But do facts correspond to this 
supposition ? Arc God, his providence, and bounty, most 
sensibly and devoutly acknowledged by you, who feel no 
want, and are tried by no adversity ? The truth is, our 
sense of obligation usually diminishes in proportion to the 
greatness and duration of blessings bestowed. A long 
course of prosperity renders us the more insensible and 
irreligious. 

But on no subject is human ingratitude so remarkably 
apparent, as in regard to the Christian religion. I speak 
not of those who reject, but of those who believe Chris- 
tianity, and who of course believe that " God so loved the 
world, as to give his only begotten Son, that whosoever 
believeth on him might not perish."*' Search all the records 
of every era and nation ; look through the works of God 
so far as they are open to human inspection, and you find 
nothing which equally displays the riches of divine mercy. 
The Son of God died to save culprits from merited condem- 
nation. But is this subject contemplated with interest," 
with joy, with astonishment ? It is viewed with the most 
frigid indifference or heartfelt reluctance. The human 
mind, far from considering this as a favourite subject, flies 
from it, when occasionally presented. 



Resistance to Oppression* — J. Quincy, Jr^jj. 

To complain of the enormities of power, to expostulate 
with overgrown oppressors, hath in all ages been denomi- 
nated sedition and faction ; and to turn upon tyrants, trea- 
son and rebellion. But tyrants are rebels against the first 
laws of Heaven and society ; to oppose their ravages is an 
instinct of nature — the inspiration of God in the heart of 
man. In the noble resistance which mankind make to ex- 
orbitant ambition and power, they always feel that divine 
afflatus, which, paramount to every thing human, causes 



* This piece is extracted from " Observations on the Boston Port 
Bill," first published in 1774, and recently reprinted in connexion wun 
the Life of Mr. Quincy, by his son.— Ed. 
4 



38 COMMOISi-PLACE BOOK UF PROSE. 

them to corsider the Lord of Hosts as their leader, and liis 
angels as fellow-soldiers. Trumpets are to them joyful 
sounds, and the ensigns of war the banners of God. Their 
wounds are bound up in the oil of a good cause ; sudden 
death is to them present martyrdom, and funeral obsequies 
resurrections to eternal honour and glory, — their widows 
and babes being received into the arms of a compassionate 
God, and their names enrolled among David's worthies : — 
gij-eatest losses are to them greatest gains ; for they leav i 
the troubles of their warfare to lie down on beds of eter- 
nal rest and felicity. 



Lafayette in the French Revolution. — Ticknor. 

Lafayette was, also, a prominent member of the 
States' General, which met in 1789, and assumed the name 
of the National Assembly. He proposed, in this body, a 
Declaration of Rights, not unlike our own, and it was un- 
der his influence, and while he was, for this very purpose, 
in the chair, that a decree was passed on the night of the 
13th and 14th of July, — at the moment the Bastile was fall- 
ing before the cannon of the populace, — which provided for 
the responsibility of ministers, and thus furnished one of 
the most important elements of a representative monarchy. 
Two days afterwards, he was appointed commander in 
chief of the National Guards of Paris, and thus was placed 
at the head of what was intended to be made, when it 
should be carried into all the departments, the effective 
military power of the realm, and what, under his wise 
management, soon became such. 

His great military command, and his still greater per- 
sonal influence, now brought him constantly in contact 
with the throne. His position, therefore, was extremely 
delicate and difficult, especially as the popular party in 
Paris, of which he was not so much the head as the idol, 
was already in a state of perilous excitement, and atrocious 
violences were beginning to be committed. The abhor- 
rence of the queen was almost universal, and was exces- 
sive to a degree of which we can have no just idea. The 



COMMOxV-PLACE UOOK OF PROSE. 39 

circuir^sUnce that the court lived at Versailles, sixteen 
miles from Paris, and that the National Assembly was held 
there, was another source of jealousy, irritation, and ha- 
tred on the part of the capital. The people of Paris, there- 
fore, as a sign of opposition, had mounted their municipal 
cockade of blue and red, whose effects were already be- 
coming alarming. Lafayette, who was anxious about the 
consequences of such a marked division, and who knew 
how important are small means cf conciliation, added to it, 
on the 26th of July, the white of the royal cockade, and, 
as he placed it in his own hat, amidst the acclamations of 
the multitude, prophesied that it " would go round the 
world ;" a prediction that is already more than half ac- 
complished, since the tri-coloured cockade has been used 
'for the ensign of emancipation in Spain, in Naples, in some 
parts of South America, and in Greece. 

Still, however, the tendency of every thing was to con- 
fusion and violence. The troubles of the times, too, rather 
than a positive want of the means of subsistence, had 
brought on a famine in the capital ; and the populace of 
fauxbourgs, the most degraded certainly in France, having 
assembled and armed themselves, determined to go to Ver- 
sailles ; the greater part with a blind desire for vengeanco 
on the royal family, but others only with the purpose of 
bringing the king from Versailles, and forcing him to re- 
side in the more ancient, but scarcely habitable palace of 
the Thuilleries, in the midst of Paris. The National 
Guards clamoured to accompany this savage multitude. 
Lafayette opposed their inclination; the municipality of 
Paris lesitated, but supported it ; he resisted nearly the 
whole of the 5th of October, while the road to Versailles 
was already thronged with an exasperated mob of above 
a hundred thousand ferocious men and women, until, at 
last, finding the multitude were armed, aad even had can- 
non, he asked and received an order to mar'.h from the 
c mpetent authority, and set off at four o'e'ock in the af- 
ternoon, as one going to a post of imm neat danger, whicb 
It had clearly become his duty to occupy 

He arrived at Versailles at ten o'clock at night, a lir 
li 'jng been on horseback from before daylight '^i ihi 
Biwrning, and having made, during the whole interval, Dctfl 



40 COMMON-PLAOE BOOK OF mOSE. 

at Paris and on the road, incredible exertions to control the 
multitude and calm the soldiers. " The Marquis de La- 
fayette at lost entered the Chateau," says Madame de Statii, 
" and, passing through the apartment where we were, 
went to the king. We all pressed round him as if he were 
the master of events, and j'^et the popular party was already 
more powerful than its chief, and principles were yielding 
to factions, or rather were beginning to serve as their pre- 
texts. M. de Lafayette's manner was perfectly calm ; no- 
body ever saw it otherwise ; but his delicacy suffered from 
the importance of the part he was called to act He asked 
for the interior posts of the Chateau, in order that he might 
ensure their safety. Only the outer posts were granted to 
him." This refusal was not disrespectful to him who made 
the request. It was given simply because the etiquette 
of the court reserved the guard of the royal person and 
family to another body of men. Lafayette, therefore, an- 
swered for the National Guards, and for the posts commit- 
ted to them ; but he could answer for no more ; and his 
pledge was faithfully and desperately redeemed. 

Between two and three o'clock, the queen and the royal 
family went to bed. Lafayette, too, slept after the great 
fatigues of this fearful day. At half past four, a portion 
of the populace made their way into the palace by an ob- 
scure, interior passage, which had been overlooked, and 
whicli was not in that part of the Chateau intrusted to 
Lafa) ntte. They were evidently led by persons who well 
knew the secret avenues. Mirabeau's name was after- 
wards strangely compromised in it, and the form of the infa- 
mous Duke of Orleans was repeatedly recognised on the great 
staircase, pointing the assassins the way to the queen's cham- 
ber. They easily found it. Two of her guards were cut 
down in an instant, and she mad^ her escape almost naked. 
Lafayette immediately rushed in with the national troops, 
protected the guards from the brutal populace, and saved 
the lives of the royal family, which had so nearly been sac 
rificed to the etiquette of the monarchy. 

The day dawned, as this fearful scene of guilt and blood- 
ed id was passing in the magnificent palace, whose con- 
6;r,iction had exhausted the revenues of Louis Fourteen*. 
ti~A "vvhich, for a century, had l)een the roost splendid resi- 



COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PROSE. 41 

iience in Europe. As soon as it was light, the same fxiri- 
DU3 multitude filled the space, which, from the rich mate- 
rials of which it was formed, passed under the name of the 
Court of Marhle. They called upon the king, in tones 
not to he mistaken, to go to Paris ; and they called for the 
queen, who had but just escaped from their daggers, to 
come out upon the balcony. The king, after a short con- 
sultation with his ministers, announced his intention to set 
out for the capital ; but Lafayette was afraid to trust the 
queen in the midst of the blood-thirsty multitude. He 
went to her, therefore, with respectful hesitation, and ask- 
ed her if it y> sre her intention to accompany the king to 
Paris. " Yes," she replied, " although 1 am aware of the 
danger." " Are you positively determined ?" " Yes, sir." 
" Condescend, then, to go out upon the balcony, and suffer 
me to attend you." "Without the king?" — she replied, 
hesitating — " Have you observed the threats ?" " Yes, 
madam, I have ; but dare to trust me." He led her out 
upon the balcony. It was a moment of great responsibility 
and great delicacy ; but nothing, he felt assured, could be 
so dangerous as to permit her to set out for Paris, surround- 
ed by that multitude, unless its feelings could be changed. 
The agitation, the tumult, the cries of the crowd, rendered 
It impossible that his voice should be heard. It was neces- 
sai'y, therefore, to address himself to the eye, and, turning 
towards the queen with that admirable presence of mind 
which never yet forsook him, and with that mingled grace 
tnd dignity, which were the peculiar inheritance of the 
ancient court of France, he simply kissed her hand before 
the vast multitude. An instant of silent astonishment fol- 
lowed, but the whole was immediately interpreted, and 
(he air was rent with cries of " Long live the queen !" 
" Long live the general !'' from the same fickle and cruel 
populace, that, only two lours before, had imbrued their 
hands in the blood of the guards who defended the life oi 
this same queen. 
4» 



12 COMMOA'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



Poeia nascitur, Orator Jit. — Monthly AjVthologt 

Poetry is the frolic of invention, the dance of words, 
and the harmony of sounds. Oratory consists in a judi- 
cious disposition of arguments, a happy selection of terms, 
and a pieasing .elocution. The object of poetry is to de 
light, that of oratory to persuade. Poetry is truth, but it 
is truth in her gayest and loveliest robes, and wit, flattery, 
hyperbole, and fable, are marshalled in her train. Oratory 
has a graver and more majestic port, and gains by slow ad- 
vances and perseverance what the poet takes by sudden 
ness of inspiration, and by surprise. Poetry requires ge 
nius; eloquence is within the reach of talent. Serioii^^- 
ness becomes one, sprightliness the other. The willie^t 
poets have been the shortest writers; but he is often tie 
best orator, who has the strongest lungs, and the firjue t 
legs. The poet sings for the approbaiion of the wise ai.d 
the pleasure of the ingenious; the orator addresses th • 
multitude, and the larger the number of ears, the better 
for his purpose ; and he who can get the most votes mos!; 
thoroughly understands his art. Bad verses are alway i 
abominable : but he is a good speaker who gains his cause. 
Bards are generally remarkable for generosity of nature; 
orators are as often notorious for their ambition. These eti- 
joy most influence while alive ; those live longest after 
death. Poets are not necessarily poor ; for Theocritus and 
Anacreon, Horace and Lucian, Racine and Boileau, Pope and 
Addison, rolled in their carriages, and slept in palaces ; yet 
it must he confessed, that most of the poetical tribe have 
rather feared the tap of the sheriff, than the damnation of 
critics. The poverty of a poet takes nothing from the 
richness and sweetness of his lines ; while an orator's suc- 
cess is not infrequently promoted by his wealth. Never- 
theless, were I poor, I would study eloquence, that I might 
be rich ; had I riches, I would study poetry, that I might 
give a portion of immortality to both. Could I write no 
better than Blackmore, I would sometimes versify; but 
were I privileged to soar upon the daring wing of Dryden's 
flQUse, I would not keep my pinions continually spread. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 43 



Intellectual Qualilies of Milton. — CnANNi:sG. 

Ix speaking cf the intellectual qualities of Milton, we 
may begin by observing that the very splendour of his poetic 
fame has tended to obscure or conceal the extent of his 
mind, and the variety of its energies and attainments. To 
many he seems only a poet, when in truth he was a pro- 
found scholar, a man of vast compass of thought, imbued 
thoroughly with all ancient and modern learning, and able 
to master, to mould, to impregnate with his own intellectu- 
al power, his great and various acquisitions. He had not 
learned the superficial doctrine of a later day, that poetry 
flourishes most in an uncultivated soil, and that imagination 
shapes its brightest visions from the mists of a superstitious 
age ; and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge, 
lest he should oppress and smother his genius. He was 
conscious of that within him, which could quicken all 
knowledge, and wield it with ease and might; which could 
give freshness to eld truths, and harmony to discordant 
thoughts ; which could bind together, by living ties and 
mysterious affinities, the most remote discoveries ; and rear 
fabrics of glory and beauty from the rude materials which 
other minds had collected. Milton had that universality 
which mai ks the highest order of intellect. Though ac- 
customed, almost from infancy, to drink at the fountains of 
classical literature, he had nothing of the pedantry and fas- 
tidiousness, which disdain all other draughts. His heal- 
thy mind delighted in genius, in whatever soil, or in what- 
ever age il I as burst forth, and poured out its fulness. He 
understood too well the right, and dignity, and pride of cre- 
ative imagination, to Ly on it the laws of the Greek or Ro- 
man school. Parnassus was not to him the only holy ground 
of genius He felt that poetry was a universal presence, 
Great minds were every where his kindred. He felt the 
enchantment of oriental fiction, surrendered himself to 
the strange creations of " Araby the blest," and delighted 
still more in the romantic spirit of chivalry, and in tlic tales 
of wonder in which it was imbodled. Accordingiy, hrs 
poetry reminds us of the ocean, wliich adds to its c^a 
boundlessness cojitributions from all regions under heaven- 



44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Nor was it only in the department of imagination, that hi» 
acquisitions were vast. He travelled over the whole field of 
knowledge, as far as it had then been explored. His various 
philological attainments were used to put him in possession 
of the wisdom stored in all countries where the inteJlect 
had been cultivated. The natural philosophy, metaphys. 
ics, ethics, history, theology and political science of his 
own and former times were familiar to him. Never was 
there a more unconfined mind ; and we would cite Milton 
as a practical example of the benefits of that universal cul- 
ture of intellect, which forms one distinction of our times, 
but which some dread as unfriendly to original thought. 
Let such remember, that mind is in its own nature diffusive. 
Its object is the universe, which is strictly one, or bound 
together by infinite connexions and correspondencies ; and, 
accordingly, its natural progress is from one to another field 
of thought ; and, wherever original power or creative ge- 
nius exists, the mind, far from being distracted or oppressed 
by the variety of its acquisitions, will see more and more 
bearingSiand hidden and beautiful analogies in all the objects 
of knowledge, will see mutual light shed from truth to 
truth, and will compel, as with a kingly power, whatever 
it understands to yield some tribute of proof, or illustration, 
or splendour, to whatever topic it would unfold. 



JVational Recollections the Foundation of national Chat - 
acter. — Edward Everett. 

And how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and 
anim.ated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its 
histoiic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing 
che changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going 
back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the 
exemplars of patriotic virtue ? I thank God that we can find 
t^-^m nearer home, in our own country, on our own soil ; — 
ti;at strains of the noblest sentiment that ever swelled in 
the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page 
of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our 
moll/ef tongue ; — that the colonial and provincial councils 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 45 

of America exhibit to us models of the spirit and charac- 
ter, which gave Greece and Rome their name and theii 
praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for our in- 
struction ; — the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is applicable. 
When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with 
the diiFerence of manners and institutions. We are willing 
to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, 
who fell nobly for his country in the face of his foe. But 
when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the 
reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri- 
ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear 
his own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, — the 
very object for which all that is kind and good in man 
rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and carry 
it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. We feel a 
glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon, 
by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; bu 
we cannot forget that the tenth part of the number were 
slaves, unchained from the work-shops and door-posts of 
their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. I do 
not mean that these examples are to destroy the interest 
with which we read the history of ancient times ; they 
possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts they 
exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warning, 
to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out 
of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own country is 
the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers. 
Them we know, — the high-souled, natural, unaffected, the 
citizen heroes. We know what happy fires'des they left 
for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habitg 
the/ dared the perils of the field. There is no mystery, 
no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, about 
them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for conscience' 
and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, 
but of all the force of long-rooted habits and native love of 
order and peace. 

Above all, their blood calls to us Ilom the soil which we 
tread ; it beats in our veins ; it cries to us not merely in the 
thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, — 
" My sons, scorn to be slaves !" — but it cries with a still 
more moving eloquence — " My sons, forget not your fa- 



46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

thers!" Faat, oh ! too fast, with all our eflbrts to prevent 
it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand- 
ing our numerous written memorials, much of what is 
kaown of those eventful times dwells but in the recollec- 
tions of a few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly 
perishing unrecorded and irretrievable. How many pru- 
dent counsels, conceived in perplexed times ; how many 
heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty was treason , 
how many brave and heroic deeds, performed when the 
halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of patriotic 
daring, — are already lost and forgotten in the graves of their 
authors! How little do we, — although we have been per- 
mitted to hold converse with the venerable remnants of 
that day, — how little do we know of their dark and anx- 
.ous hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hurried 
and perilous events of the momentous struggle ! And while 
they are dropping around us like the leaves of autumn, 
while scarce a week passes that does not call away some 
member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned, 
ihall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their 
do.y to our children ; to pass the torch of liberty, — which 
we received in all the splendour of its first enkindling,— 
bright and flaming, to those who stand next us on the 
line ; so that, when we shall come to be gathered to the 
lust where our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons 
and our grandsons, '* If we did not amass, we have rot 
squandered your inheritance of glory ?" 



Extract from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. — Irvixg. 

Ox a fine autumnal morning, Ichabod, in pensive mood, 
sat enthroned on a lofty stool, from whence he usually 
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In 
his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptr'? of despotic pow- 
er ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the 
throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk be- 
fore him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohib- 
ited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins: such 
as half-uiunched apples, popguns, wh'jligigs, flycages, and 



COBmON-rLA<"E BOOK OF PRCJSE. 47 

w]it>l'* legions 01 rampant little paper game-cocks. Apna 
i.ently ttiere had been some act of justice recently iutiict- 
ed ^ Tor his scliolars were all buplly intent upon their books, 
or slyly whispering behnd them, \vith one eye kept upon 
the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reignod 
throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted 
by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trow 
sersj a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of 
Mercury, and mounted on a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, 
v/hich he managed with a rope, by wny of halter. He 
came clattering up to the school-door, with an invitation to 
Tchabod to attend a merry-making, or " quilting frolic," 
to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, hav- 
ing delivered his message with that air of importance, and 
effort of fine language, which a negro is apt to display on 
petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and 
was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the im- 
portance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons 
without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skip- 
ped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy 
had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quick- 
en their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
thrown aside without being put away on the shelves ; ink- 
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time ; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early eman- 
cipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half- 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and 
indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by 
abit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school 
house That he might make his appearance before his miS' 
ties? in the true spirit of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse 
froK. the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a chol- 
eric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Rippsr, and, 
tlu.js iR:allantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant 
v.\ QU06t of adventures. — But it is fit that I should, in the 
trufe spirit of romantic story, give some account of the 



48 COMaiON-PLAOE BOOK OF rm>SE. 

looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. TLe anl» 
mal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had 
outUved almost every thing but his vlciousness. He was 
gaunt and shagged, with an ewe neck, and a head like a 
hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot, 
ted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was "glaring 
and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, 
if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He 
had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master's, the chole- 
ric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, 
very probably, some cf his spirit into the animal ; for, old and 
broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking 
devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rods with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out 
like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in 
his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the mo- 
tion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of 
wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose,— 
for so his scanty strip of a forehead might be called, — and 
the skirts of his black coat flirted out almost to the horse's 
tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, 
as ha shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and 
it was altogether such an apparition as is rarely to be me: 
with in broad day-light. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery, which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nip- 
ped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their 
appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might 
be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and 
the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- 
bouring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquet?. 
In the fulue?3 of their revelry they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking from bush to bush and tree to tree, capn- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 2 ROSE. 49 

cious from the very abundance around tliem. There was 
the honest cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note ; and the twitter- 
ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- wing- 
e J woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gor- 
gef.. and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its 
red't'pped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little montcrr. 
cap of ferthers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in 
his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming 
and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre- 
tending to be on good terms with every songster of the 
grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with 
delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides 
he beheld v^ast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive 
opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- 
'•els for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the 
cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian 
corn, wiih its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, 
and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty puddings ; 
and the yellov/ pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up 
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- 
pects of the most luxurious pies ; and anon he passed the 
fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odour of "ihs ies- 
hive, and, as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over 
his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished 
with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand 
of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind wjth many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
jicones of the mighty Hiiison. The sun gradually wheel- 
ea his broad disk down lUi^ the west; the wide bosom of 
the Tapaan Zee lay motionlesa ^ flassy, excepting that, 
here and there, a gentle undulation waved and prolonged 
*he blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber 
ciouds floited in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing 
giadually into a pure apple green, and from that into the 
deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the 

5 



60 COMMOiN -PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 

woody crests of the precipices, that overhung some parts 
of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and 
purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the 
.distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 
,nanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the reflection 
of the sky gleiiaed along the still water, it seemed as if 
the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas- 
tle of Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country Old farmers, a spare , 
leatherned- faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue 
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, 
long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and 
pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- 
ing where a straw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white 
frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons in short 
square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, 
and their hair generally queued in the fasliion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, 
it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nour- 
isher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favourite steed Daredevil, 
a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
which no one but himself could manage. He was in fact 
noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of 
tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, 
for he held a tractable, wellbroken horse as unworthy a lad 
of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charius 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he en- 
tered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion : not those 
of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of 
red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch 
country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such 
heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescri- 
bable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch houi?e 
wives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly 
koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 1 ROSE. 51 

short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the who/e 
family of cakes. And then there were apple es, and 
peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and 
smoked beef; and, moreover, delectable dishes of preserved 
plums, and peaches, and pears, nnd quinces ; not to men- 
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together vv^it?h bowls 
of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty 
much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea- 
poi f eLxling up its clouds of vapour fi-om the midst. Hea- 
ven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this 
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my 
story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry 
as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 



Reflections' on the Settlement of JSTew England. 
Webstkr. 

The settlement of New England, by the colony whicia 
landed here on the twenty-secondof December, sixteen hun- 
dred and twenty, although not the first European establish- 
ment in what now constitutes the United States, was yet so 
peculiar in its causes and character, and has been followed, 
and must still be followed, by such consequences, as to 
give it a high claim to lasting commemoration. On these 
causes and consequences, more than on its immediately at- 
tendant circumstances, its importance, as an historical event, 
depends. Great actions and sti'iking occurrences, having 
excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are 
forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting 
the prosperity of communities. Such is frequently the for- 
tune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the 
ten thousand battles which have been fought ; of all the 
fieUs fertilized with carnage ; of the banners which have 
been bathed in blood; of the warriors who have hoped 
thai they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory a3 
bright and as durable as the stars, how few that continue 
long to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is re- 
versed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of military glory 
rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and 



52 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 

disaster hang on the heels of conquest and reno^_ ; -victoi 
and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion^ and the 
world holds on its course, with the loss only of so many 
lives, and so much treasure. 

But if this is frequently, or generally, the fortune of military 
achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, mili- 
tary as well as civil, that sometin es check the current of 
events, give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their 
consequences through ages. We see their importance in their 
results, and call them great, because great things follow. 
There have been battles which have fixed the fate of na- 
tions. These come dowu to us in history with a solid and 
permanent influence, not created by a display of glittering 
armour, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and ris- 
ing of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory ; 
hut by their eifect in advancing or retarding human knowl- 
edge, in overthrowing or establishing despotism, in extend- 
ing or destroying human happiness. "When the traveller 
pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotions 
which strongly agitate hU breast ? what is that glorious re- 
collection that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his 
eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian 
valour were here most signally displayed ; but that Greece 
herself was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the 
event which has rendered it immortal, he refers all the 
succeeding glories of the republic. It is because, if that 
day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is be- 
cause he perceives that her philosophers and orators, her 
poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her gov- 
ernment and free institutions, point backward to Mara- 
thon, and that their future existence seems to have been 
suspended on the contingency, whether the Persian or Gre- 
cian banner should wave victorious in the beams cf that 
day's setting sun. And, as his imagination kindles at the 
retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting mo- 
ment ; he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts ; 
his interest for the result overwhelms him; he trembles as 
if it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether 
he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sopho- 
cles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself and to the 
world. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 63 

"If we conquer," — said the Athenian commander on 
the morning of that decisive day, — " if we conquer, we 
shall make Athens the greatest city of Greece." A proph- 
ecy how well fulfilled ! " if God prosper us," — might 
have been the more appropriate language of our fathers, 
when they landed upon this rock, — " if God prosper us, 
we shall here begin a work that shall last for ages; we 
shall plant here a new society, in the principles of the 
fullest liberty, and the purest religion ; we shall subdue 
this wilderness which is before us ; we shall fill this re- 
gion of the great continent, which stretches almost from pole 
;o pole, with civilization and Christianity ; the templesof the 
true God shall- rise where now ascends the smoke of idola- 
trous sacrifice ; fields and gardens, the flowers of summer, 
and the waving and golden harvests of autumn, shall ex- 
tend over a thousand hills, and stretch along a thousand 
valleys, never yet, since the creation, reclaimed to the use 
of civilized man. We shall whiten this coast with the can- 
vass of a prosperous commerce ; we shall stud the long and 
winding shore v/ith a hundred cities. That which we 
sow in weakness shall be raised in strength. From our 
sincere, but houseless worship, there shall spring splendid 
temples to record God's goodness ; from the simplicity of 
our social union, there shall arise wise and politic constitu- 
tions of government, full of the liberty which we ourselves 
bring and breathe; from our zeal for learning, institutions 
shall spring, which shall scatter the light of knowledge 
throughout the land, and, in time, paying back what they 
have borrowed, shall contribute their part to the great ag- 
gregate of human knowledge ; and our descendants, through 
all generations, shall look back to this spot, and this hour, 
with unabated affection and regard." 



Forest Scenery. — Paitldijvg. 

By degrees, as custom reconciled me more and more to 
fasting and long rambles, I extended my excursions farther 
from home, and sometimes remained out all day without 
tasting food, or resting myself, except for a few minutes 

5* 



64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

upon tli8 tnink of some decayed old tree or moss-cove*ed 
rock. The country, though in a great degree in its native 
state of wiidaess, was full of romantic beauties. The Mo- 
hawk is one of the most charming of rivers, sometimea 
brawling among ragged rocks, or darting swiftly through long, 
narrow reaches, and here and there, as at the Little Falls, 
and again at the Cohoes, darting down high perpendicular 
rocks, in sheets of milk-white foam; but its general charac- 
ter is that of repose and quiet. It is no where so broad, 
but that rural objects and rural sounds may be seen and 
heard distinctly from one side to the other ; and in many 
places the banks on either hand are composed of rich mead- 
ows, or flats, as vhey were denominated by the early Dutch 
settlers, so nearly on a level with the surface of the water, 
as to be almost identified with it at a distance, were it not 
for the rich fringe of water willows, that skirt it on either 
side, and mark the lines of separation. In these rich pas- 
tures may now be seen the lowing herds, half hidden in 
the luxuriant grass, and, a little farther on, out of the reach 
of the spring freshets, the comfortable farm-houses of 
many a sanguine country squire, who dreams of boundless 
wealth from the Grand Canal, and, in his admiration of the 
works of man, forgets the far greater beauty, grandeur, 
and utility of the v/orks of bis Maker. But I am to de- 
scribe the scenery as it was in the days of my boyhood, 
when, like Nimrod, I was a mighty hunter before the 
Lord. 

At the time I speak of, all that was to be seen was of the 
handy work of nature, except the little settlement, over 
which presided the patriarch Veeder. We were the ad- 
vance guard of civilization, and a few steps beyond us was 
the region of primeval forests, composed of elms and ma- 
ples, and oaks and pines, that seemed as if their seeds had 
been sown at the time of the deluge, and that they had 
been growing ever since. I have still a distinct recollec- 
tion, I might almost say perception, of the gloom and damps 
which pervaded these chilling shades, where the summer 
sun never penetrated, and in whose recesses the very light 
was of a greenish hue. Here, especially along the little 
streams, many of which are now dried up by the opening of 
the earth to the sun-beams, every rock and piece of mould- 



COMMi N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 55 

ering wood was w^rapped in a carpet of green moss, fostered 
into more than velvet luxuriance by the everlasting darap3, 
that, unlike the dews of heaven, fell all the day as well as 
all the night. Here and there a flower reared its pale 
head among the rankness of the sunless vegetation of un- 
sightly fungus, but it was without fragrance, and almost 
without life, for it withered as soon as plucked from the 
stem. I do not remember ever to have heard a singing 
bird in these forests, except just on the outer skii-ts, front- 
ing the south, where occasionally a robin chirped, or a 
thrush sung his evening chant. These tiny choristers seem 
almost actuated by the vanity of human beings ; for I have 
observed they appear to take peculiar delight in the neigh- 
bourhood of the habitations of men, where they have listen- 
ers to their music. They do not love to sing where there 
is no one to hear them. The rery insects of the wing 
seemed almost to have abandoned the gloomy solitude, to 
sport in the sunshine among the flowers. Neither butter- 
fly nor grasshopper abided there, and the honey-bee never 
came to equip himself in his yellow breeches. He is the 
companion of the white man, and seems content to be his 
slave, to toil for him all the summer, only that he may be 
tllowed the enjoyment of the refuse of his own labours in 
the winter. To plunge into the recesses of these woods, 
\ras like descending into a cave under ground. There 
was the coolness, the dampness, and the obscurity of twi- 
light. Yet custom made me love these solitudes, and 
many are the days I have spent among them, with my dog 
and gun, and no other guide but the sun in heaven and the 
moss on the north side of the trees. 



Influence of Christianity in elevating the female 
Character. — J. G. Carter. 

There is one topic, intimately connected with the intro- 
duction and decline of Christianity, and subsequently with 
.*ts revival in Europe, which the occasion strongly suggests, 
and whicV; I cannot forbear briefly to touch upon. I allude 
to the new and more ';iteresting character assumed by wo- 



56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROfiE. 

man since those events. In the heathen world, and undej 
the Jewish dispensation, she was the slave of man. Chris- 
tianity constituted her his companion. But, as our religion 
gradually lost its power in the dark ages, she sunk down 
again to her deep moral degradation. She was the first to 
fall in the garden of Eden, and perhaps it was a judgment 
upon her, that, when the whole human race was now low, 
she sunk the lowest, and was the last to rise again to her 
original consequence in the scale of being. The f.ge of 
chivalry, indeed, exalted her to be an object of adoration. 
But it v/as a profane adoration, not founded upon the respect 
due to a being of immortal hopes and destinies as well as 
man. This high character has been conceded to her at 
a later period, as she has slowly attained the rank ordained 
for her by Heaven. Although this change in the relation of 
woman to man and to society is both an evidence and a conse- 
quence of an improvement in the human condition, yet now 
her character is a cause operating to produce a still great- 
er improvement. And if there be any one cause, to which 
we may look with more confidence than to others, for has- 
tening the approach of a more perfect state of society, 
that cause is the elevated character of woman as displayed 
m the full developement of all her moral and intellectual 
powers. The conjugal confession of Eve to Adam, 

" God is thy law, thou mine ; to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise," 

has grown to be obsolete. The influence of the female 
character is now felt and acknowledged in all the relations 
of her life. I speak not now of those distinguished wo- 
men, who instruct their age through the public press; nor 
of those whose devout strains we tiike upon our lips when 
we worship ; but of a much larger class ; of those whose 
influence is felt in the relations of neighbour, fiiend, daugh- 
ter, wife, mother. Who waits at the couch of the sick to 
administer tender charities while life lingers, or to perform 
the last acts of kindness when death comes ? Where shall 
we look for those examples of friendship, that most adom 
flur nature ; those abiding friendships, which trust even 
when betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune ? Where 
shall we find the brightest illustrations of filial piety ^ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 57 

Have you ever seen a daugliter, herself, perliaps, timid 
and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and 
holding out with heroic fortitude to anticipate his wishes 
to administer to his wants, and to sustain his tottering steps 
to the very borders of the grave ? 

But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influ- 
ence, both immediately and prospectively, as in that of 
mother. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the 
infant mind. Upon her devolves the care of the tirst 
stages of that course of discipline, which is to form, of a 
being perhaps the most frail and helpless in the world, the 
fearless ruler of animated creation, and the devout ador- 
er of its great Creator. Her smiles call into exercise the 
first affections that spring up in our hearts. She cher- 
ishes and expands the earliest germs of our intellects 
She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our 
little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. 
She watches over us, like a guardian angel, and protects 
us through all our helpless years, when we know not of 
her cares and her anxieties on our account. She follows 
us into the world of men, and lives in us, and blesses us, 
when she lives not otherwise upon the earth. What con- 
stitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do our 
thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with wandering, 
and our hearts sick with disappointment ? Where shall the 
truant and forgetful husband go for sympathy, unalloyed 
and without design, but to the bosom of her, who is ever 
ready and waiting to share in his adversity or his prosperi- 
ty. And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the fol- 
lies of a froward child may hope for pardon and forgive- 
ness this side heaven, that tribunal is the heart of a fond 
and devoted mother. 



JS^ecessity of a pure national Morality. — Beechkr. 

The crisis has come. By the people of this generation, 
by ourselves, probably, the amazing question is to be de- 
cided, w^hether the inheritance of our fathers shall be pre- 
served or thrown away ; whether our Sabbaths shall be a 



53 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

delight or a loathing ; whether the taverns, on that hclj 
day, shall be crowded with drunkards, or the sanctuary ci 
God with humble worshippers ; whether riot and profane- 
ness shall fill our streets, and poverty our dwellings, and 
convicts our jails, and violence our land, or whether indus- 
try, and temperance, and righteousness, shall be the stability 
of our times ; whether mild laws shall receive the cheer- 
ful submission of freemen, or the iron rod of a tyrant com- 
pel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived, 
lluman nature in this state is like human nature every 
where. All actual difference in our favour is adventitious, 
and the result of our laws, institutions, and habits. It is a 
i.ioral influence, which, with the blessing of God, has form- 
ed a state of society so eminently desirable. The same in- 
fluence which formed it is indispensable to its preservation. 
The rocks and hills of New England will remain till the 
last conflagration. But let the Sabbath be profaned with 
impunity, the worship of God be abandoned, the govern- 
ment and religious instruction of children neglected, and 
the streams of intemperance be permitted to flow, and her 
glory will depart. The wall of fire will no longer sur- 
round her, and the munition of rocks will no longer be her 
defence. 

If we neglect our duty, and suffer our laws and mstitu- 
tions to go down, we give them up forever. It is easy to 
relax, easy to retreat ; but impossible, when the abomina- 
tion of desolation has once passed over New England, to 
rear again the thrown-down altars, and gather again the 
fragments, and build up the ruins of demolished institutions. 
Another New England nor we nor our children shall ever 
see, if this be destroyed. All is lost irretrievably when 
the landmarks are once removed, and the bands which now 
hold us are once broken. Such institutions and such a 
state of society can be established only by such men as 
our fathers were, and in such circumstances as they were 
in. They could not have made a New England in Hol- 
land ; they made the attempt, but failed. 

The hand that overturns our laws and temples is the 
hand of death unbarring the gate of Pandemonium, and 
letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries of Heil. 
If the Most High shoul 1 stand aloof, and cast not a sir gle 



COxMMO.N'-FLACE BOOK OF PROiiE. 69 

mgrcdieat into our cup of trembling, it would seem to bo 
full of superlative wo. But lie will not stani alocf. As 
we shall have begun an open controversy with Lirr, he will 
contend openly with us. And never, since the earth stood, 
has it been so fearful a thing for nations to fall into the 
hands of the living God. The day of venge?>nce is at 
hand the day of judgment has come ; the great earth- 
quaV'. which sinks Babylon is shaking the rations, and the 
waves of the mighty commotion are dashing upon every 
shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the foundations, 
when the earth itself is shaken ? Is this a time to forfeit 
the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failing 
them for fear, and for looking after those things which are 
to come upon the earth ? Is this a time to run upon hi.^ 
neck and the thick bosses of his buckler, when the nations 
are drinking blood, and fainting, and passing away in his 
wrath .-• Is this a time to throw away the shield of faith, 
when his arrows are drunk with the blood of the slain ? to 
cut from the anchor of hope, when the clouds are collect- 
ing, and the sea and the waves are roaring, and thun- 
ders are uttering their voices, and lightnings blazing in 
the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon 
men, and every mountain, sea and island is fleeing in dis- 
may from the face of an incensed God ? 



Value of religious Faith. — Buckminsteb. 

Who would look back upon the history of the world 
with the eye of incredulity, after having once read it with 
tbe eye of faith ? To the man of faith it is the story of 
God's operations. To the unbeliever it is only the record 
of the strange sports of a race of agents as uncontrolled as 
they are unaccountable. To the man of faith every por- 
tion of history is part of a vast plan, conceived ages ago in 
the mind of Omnipotence, which has been fitted precisely 
to the period it was intended to occupy. The whole series 
of events forms a magnificent and symmetrical fabric to 
the eye of pious contemplation ; and, though the dome be 
in the clov-ds, and the top, from its loftiness, be indiscerri- 



60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSK. 

ble to mortal vision, yet the foundations are so deep 
and solid, that we are sure they are intended to support 
something permanent and grand. To the sceptic, all the 
events of all the ages of the world are hut a scattered 
crowd of useless and indigested materials. In his mind 
all is darkness, all is incomprehensible. The light of 
prophecy illuminates not to him the obscurity of anciert 
annals. He sees in them neither design nor operation, 
neither tendencies nor conclusions. To him the wonderful 
knowledge of one people is just as interesting as the des- 
perate ignorance of another. In the deliverance which 
God has sometimes wrought for the oppressed, he sees 
nothing but the fact ; and in the oppression and decline of 
haughty empires, nothing but the common accidents of na- 
tional fortune. Going about to account for events accord- 
ing to what he calls general laws, he never for a moment 
considers, that all laws, whether physical, political or moral, 
imply a legislator, and are contrived to serve some purpose. 
Because he cannot always, by his short-sighted vision, dis- 
cover the tendencies of the mighty events of which this 
earth ha- been the theatre, he looks on the drama of ex- 
istence around him as proceeding without a plan. Is that 
^ rinciple, then, of no importance, which raises man above 
wVsat hi= eyes see or his ears hear at present, and shovv's 
hu.v tiiv.- V iist chain of human events, fastened eternally to 
the throne of God, and returning, after embracing the 
universe, again to link itself to the footstool of Omnipo- 
tence .-* 

Would you know the value of this principle of faith to 
the bereaved ? Go, and follow a corpse to the grave. See 
the body deposited there, and hear the earth thrown in upon 
all that remains of your friend. Return now, if you will, 
and brood over the lesson which your senses have given 
you, and derive from it what consolation you can. You 
ha\ e learned nothing hut an unconsoling fact. No voice 
of comfort issues from the tomb. All is still there, and 
blank, and lifeless, and has been so for ages. You see 
nothing but bodies dissolving and successively romgling 
with the clods which cover them, the grass growing over 
the spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this 
region of eternal silence. And what is there more 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 61 

Nothing. — Come, Faith, and people these deserts ! Come, 
and reanimate these regions of forgetfulness ! Mothers ! 
take again your children to your arms, for they are living. 
Sons ! your aged parents are coming forth in the vigour o( 
regenerated years. Friends ! behold, your dearest connex- 
ions are w^aiting to embrace you. The tombs are burst, 
(generations long since in slumbers are awakening. They 
are coming from the east and the west, from the north 
and from the south, to constitute the community of the 
blessed. 

But it is not in the loss of friends alone, that faith fur- 
lishes consolations which are inestimable. With a man of 
faith not an affliction is lost, not a change is unimproved. 
He studies even his own history with pleasure, and finds il 
full of instruction. The dark passages of his life are illu- 
minated with hope ; and he sees, that although he ha.'s 
passed through many dreary defiles, yet they have opened 
at last into brighter regions of existence He recalls, with 
a species of wondering gratitude, periods of his life, when 
all its events seemed to conspire against him. Hemmed 
in by straitened circumstances, wearied with repeated 
blows of unexpected misfortunes, and exhausted with the 
painful anticipation of more, he recollects years, when the 
ordinary love of life could not have retained him in the 
world. Many a time he might have wished to lay down 
his beijig in disgust^ had not something more than the 
senses provide us with, kept up the elasticity of his mind. 
He yet lives, and has found that light is sown for the right- 
eous, and gladness for the upright in heart. The man of 
faith discovers some gracious purpose in every combination 
of circumstances. Wherever he finds himself, he knows 
tliat he has a destination — he has, therefore, a duty. Every 
event has, in his eye, a tendency and an aim. Nothing is 
accidental, nothing without purpose, nothing unattended 
wi'h benevolent consequences. Every thing on earth is 
piobationary, nothing ultimate. He is poor — perhaps his 
plans have, been defeated — he finds it difficult to provide 
for the exigencies of life — sickness is permitted to invade 
the quiet of his household — long confinement imprisons 
his activity, and cuts short the exertions on which so many 
dep'jnd— -something nparently unlucky mars his best plans 
6 



62 co:^i:\roN-pLAcE uuuk of ritosE. 

— new failures and embarrassments among liis friends pre- 
sent tliemselves, and throw additional obstruction in his 
way — the world look on and say, ail these things are against 
him. Some wait coolly for the hour when he shall sink 
under the complicated embarrassments of his cruel fortune. 
Others, of a kinder spirit, regard him with compassion, and 
wonder how he can sustain such a variety of wo. A few 
there are, a very few, I fear, who can understand some- 
thing of the serenity of his mind, and comprehend some- 
thing of the nature of his fortitude. There are those, 
whose sympathetic piety can read and interpret the char- 
acters of resignation on his brow. There are those, in line, 
who have felt the influence of faith. 

In this influence there is nothing mysterious, nothing 
romantic, nothing of which the highest reason may be 
ashamed. It shows the Christian his God, in all the mild 
majesty of his parental character. It shows you God, dis- 
posing in still and benevolent wisdom the events of everj 
individual's life, pressing the pious spirit with the weight 
of calamity to increase the elasticity of the mind, produc- 
ing characters of unexpected worth by unexpected mis- 
fortune, invigorating certain virtues bj' peculiar probations, 
thus breaking the fetters which bind us to temporal things, 
and 

" From seeming evil still educing good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression." 

When the sun of the believer's hopes, according to com 
mon calculations, is set, to the eye of faith it is still visible. 
When much of the rest of the world is in darkness, the 
high ground of faith is illuminated with the brightness of 
religious consolation. 

Come now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to the 
bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what peace a 
Christian can die ? Watch the last gleams of thought which 
stream from his dying eyes. Do you see any thing like ap- 
prehension ? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The 
shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist 
thickens., and rests upon the objects which have hitherto 
engaged his observation. The countenances of his friend^ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK: OF PROSE. 63 

become more and more indistinct. The sweet expiesAions 
of love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His ear 
wakes no more at the well-known voice of his children, 
an the soothing accents of tender affection die away un- 
heard, upon his decaying senses. To him the spectacle 
of human life is drawing to its close, and the curtain is 
descending, which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its 
scenes. He is no longer interested in all that is done un- 
der the sun. ! that 1 could now open to you the recesses 
of his soul ; that I could reveal to you the light, which 
darts into the chambers of his understanding. He ap- 
proaches that world which he has so long seen in faith. 
The imagination now collects its diminished strength, and 
the eye of faith opens wide. Friends! do not stand, thus 
fixed in sorrow, around this bed of death. Why are you 
so still and silent ? Fear not to move — you cannot disturb 
the last visions which enchant this holy spirit. Your lam- 
entations break not in upon the songs of seraphs, which 
inwrap his hearing in ecstasy. Crowd, if you choose, 
around his couch — he heeds you not — already he sees the 
spirits of the just advancing together to receive a kindred 
soul. Press him not with importunities ; urge him not 
with alleviations. Think you he wants now these tones 
of mortal voices — these material, these gross consolations ? 
No ! He is going to add another to the myriads of the just, 
that are every moment crowding into the portals of heav- 
en ! He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you — he 
leaves you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about 
a little longer among the miseries and sensualities of a 
worldly life. Already he cries to you from the regions of 
bliss. Will you not join him there ? Will you not taste the 
sublime joys of faith ? There are your predecessors in vlr 
tue ; there, too, are places left for your contemporaries. 
There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made 
perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where \i 
Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and Godj th*? 
judge of all 



f>4 C0M3I0N-l'LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Death of General Washington. — Marshall,. 

On Friday, the 13th of December, 1799, while attending 
to some improvements upon his estate, he was exposed to a 
slight rain, by which his neck and hair became wet. Un- 
apprehensive of danger from this circumstance, he passed 
the afternoon in his usual manner ; but in the night he 
was seized with an inflammatory affection of the wind- 
pipe. The disease commenced with a violent ague, ac- 
companied with some pain in the upper and fore part of 
the throat, a sense of stricture in the same part, a cough, 
and a difficult, rather than a painful, deglutition, which 
were soon succeeded by a fever, and a quick and laborious 
respiration. 

Believing bloodletting to be necessary, he procured a 
bleeder, who took from his arm twelve or fourteen ounces 
of blood ; but he would not permit a messenger to be de- 
spatched for his family physician until the appearance of 
day. About eleven in the morning, Dr. Craik arrived ; 
and, perceiving the extreme danger of the case, requested 
that two consulting physicians should be immediately sent 
for. Tiie utmost exertions of medical skill were applied 
in vain. The powers of life were manifestly yielding to 
the force of the disorder ; speaking, which was painful 
from the beginning, became almost impracticable ; respi- 
ration became more and more contracted and imperfect ; 
until half past eleven on Saturday night, when, retaining the 
full possession of his intellect, he expired without a struggle 

Believing, at the commencement of his complaint, as well 
as through every sixcceeding stage of it, that its conclusion 
would be mortal, he submitted to the exertions made for 
his recovery rather as a duty than from any expectation of 
their erflcacy. Some hours before his death, after repeated 
efibrts to be understood, he succeeded in expressing a de- 
sire that he might be permitted to die without interruption. 
After it became impossible to get any thing down his throat, 
he imdressed himself, and went to bed, there to die. To 
his friend and physician. Dr. Craik, who sat on his bed, 
and took his head in his lap, he said with difficulty, " Doc- 
tor, 1 am dying, and have been dyirg for a long time; but 
I am not afraid to die." 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 65 

During the short period of his ilhiess, he economized his 
{irne in arranging, with the utmost serenity, those few con- 
cerns which required his attention, and anticipated his ap- 
proaching dissolution with every demonstration of that equa- 
nimity, for which his life was so uniformly and singularly 
conspicuous. 

The deep and wide-spreading grief, occasioned hy this 
flielancholy event, assembled a great concourse of people, 
for the purpose of paying the last tribute of respect to the 
first of Americans. On Wednesday, the 18th of December, 
attended by military honours and the ceremonies of religion 
his body was deposited in the family vault at Mount Vernon 

So short was his illness, that, at the seat of government, 
the intelligence of his death preceded that of his indiapo- 
sition. It was first communicated by a passenger in the 
stage to an acquaintance whom he met in the street, and 
the report quickly reached the house of representatives, 
which was then in session. The utmost dismay and afflic- 
tion were displayed for a few minutes, after which a mem* 
ber stated in his place the melancholy information which 
had been received. This information, he said, was not cer- 
tain, but there was too much reason to believe it true. 

" After receiving intelligence," he added, " of a national 
calamity so heavy and afflicting, the house of representa- 
tives can be but ill fitted for public business." He there- 
fore moved an adjournment. Both houses adjourned until 
the next day. 

On the succeeding day, as soon as the orders were read, 
the same member addressed the ch^iir, and afterwards of- 
fered the following resolutions :* 

" Resolved, that this house will wait upon the president- 
in condolence of this mournful event. 

" Resolved, that the speaker's chair be shrouded with 
black, and that the members and officers of the house wear 
black during the session. 

" Resolved, that a committee, in conjunction with or.e 
from the senate, be appointed to consider on the most suit- 



* These resolutions were prepared by General Lee, and offered >y 
John Marshall, the future l)!ographer of Wa.sI)in«rton. Tlie last aenA- 
mei t in tKefn has been often quoled and admired.— Ed. 



B6 COMMON-PLACE BJOK OF PROSE. 

able manner of paying honour to the memory of the Matt 
fii-st in war, first ia peace, and first in the hearts of his 
feiiow-citizens " 



The Lessons of Death. — Nortoiv. 

When such men are taken from us, we are made to feel 
the instability of life, and the insecurity of the tenure by 
which we hold its dearest blessings. But this feeling %vill 
be of little value, if it do not lead us to look beyond this world, 
and if it be not thus connected with a strong sense of the 
proper business of life, — to prepare ourselves for happiness 
in that world, where there shall be no change but from 
glory to glory. It will be in vain for us to contemplate 
such a character as we have been regarding, if we do not 
feel that its foundation was in that religion, which teaches 
every one of us to regard himself as created by God, to 
be an image of his own eternity. It will be in vain for 
us to stand by the open grave of departed worth, if no 
earthly passion grows cool, and no holy purpose gains 
strength. 

We are liable, in this w^orld, to continual delusion ; to a 
most extravagant over-estimate of the value of its objects. 
With respect to many of our cares and pursuits, the senti- 
ment expressed in the w^ords of David must have borne 
with all its truth and force upon the mind cl every con- 
siderate man in some moments, at least, of serious reflec- 
tion : Surely every one walketh in a vain show ; surely 
they are disquieted in vain. The events of the next 
month, or the next year, often assume in our eyes a most 
disproportionate importance, and almost exclude from our 
view all the other infinite variety of concerns and changes 
which are to follow in the course of an immortal existence. 
The whole happiness of our being seems sometimes to be 
at stake upon the success of a plan, which, when we have 
grown but a little older, we may regard with indifference. 
These are subjects on which reason too commonly speaks 
to us in vain. But there is one lesson, which God some- 
times gives us, that brings the truth home to our hearts 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 67 

There is an admonition, which addresses itself directly to 
our feelings, and before which they bow in humility and 
tears. We can hardly watch the gradual decay of a man 
eminent for virtue and talents, and hear him uttering, with 
a voice that will soon be heard no more, the last expressions 
of piety and holy hope, without feeling that the delusions of 
life are losing their power over our minds. Its true pur- 
poses begin to appe ir to us in their proper distinctness. 
We are accompanying one, who is about to take his leave 
of present objects ; to whom the things of this life, merely, 
are no longer of any interest or value. The eye, which 
is still turned to us in kindness, will, in a few days, be closed 
forever. The hand, by which ours is still pressed, will be 
motionless. The affections, which are still warm and vivid 
— they will not perish ; but we shall know nothing of their 
exercise. We shall be cut off from all expressions and 
return of sympathy. He whom we love is taking; leavp of 
us for an undefined period of absence. We are placed with 
him on the verge between th'i world and the eternity into 
which he is entering ; wc look before us^ and the objects 
of the latter rise to view, in all their vast and solemn mag- 
nificence. 

There is, I well know, an anguish which may preclude 
this calmness of reflection and hope. Our resolution may 
be prostrated to the earth ; for he, on whom we are accus- 
tomed to rely for strength and support, has been taken 
away. We return to the world, and there is bitterness in 
all it presents us ; for every thing bears impressed upon it 
a remembrance of what we have lost. It has one, and but 
one, miserable consolation to offer : 

" That anguish will be wearied down, I know. 

What pang is permanent with man ? From th' highest, 

As from llie vilest thing of every d-iy, 

He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours 

Conquer him." 

It is a consolation, which, offered in this naked and cf- 
fensive form, we instinctively reject. Our recollections and 
our sorrows, Dlended as they are together, are far too dear 
to be parted with upon such terms. But God g;iveth not as 
the world giveth. There is a peace which comes from 
him, and brings healing to the heart. His religion would 



68 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 

not have us forget, but cherish, our afiections ft t^i? ie«^ 
for it makes known to us, that these affections s'' "\\J ^e in. 
mortal. It gradually takes away the bitterness oi cmv re 
collections, and changes them into glorious hopes ; for i 
teaches us to regard the friend, who is with us no longer, 
not as one whom we have lost on earth, but as one whom w» 
shall meet, as an angel, in heaven. 



Character of Chief Justice Marshall. — Wirt. 

The chief justice of the United States is in his pei«ofi 
tall, meager, emaciated ; his muscles relaxed, and his 
joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him, 
apparently, for any vigorous exertions of body, but to de- 
stroy every thing like elegance and harmony in his air anc' 
movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance and demea- 
nour, — dress, attitudes, and gesture — sitting, standing, or 
walking, — he is as far removed from the idolized graces of 
Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. To 
continue the portrait : his head and face are small in pro- 
portion to his height ; his complexion swarthy ; the mus- 
cles of his face, being relaxed, give him the appearance of 
a man of fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger. 
His countenance has a faithful expression of great good- 
humour and hilarity ; while his black eyes — that unerring 
index — possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the 
iiiiperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within. 

This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, with- 
out the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or 
any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be consid- 
ered as one of the most eloquent men in the world ; if elo- 
quence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the 
attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to 
elude the grasp until the hearer has received the convic- 
tion which the speaker intends. 

As to his person, it has already been described. His 
voice is dry and hard ; his attitude, in his most effective ora- 
tions, was often extremely awkward, as it w?.s not unusual 
for him to stand with his left foot in advance ; while all his 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 69 

gesture proceeded from his right arm, and coDsisted mere* 
ly in a vehement, perpendicular swing of it, from about 
the elevation of his head to the bar, behind which he was 
accustomed to stand. 

As to Fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, which 
I very much doubt, his gigantic Genius tramples with dis- 
dain on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres. 
How, then, you will ask, with a look of incredulous curios- 
ity, — how is it possible that such a man can hold the atten- 
tion of an audience enchained through a speech of even or- 
dinary length ? I will tell you. 

He possesses one original, and almost supernatural facul- 
ty, — the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance 
of his mind, and detecting at once the very point on which 
every controversy depends. No matter what the question; 
though ten times more knotty than " the gnarled oak," the 
lightning of heaven is not more rapid nor more resistless 
than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise 
of it seem to cost him an etibrt. On the contrary, it is as 
easy as vision. I am persuaded that his eyes do not Ry 
over a landscape, and take in its various objects with more 
promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and ana- 
lyzes the most complex subject. 

Possessing while at the bar this intellectual elevation, 
which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole 
ground at once, he determined, immediately, and without diffi- 
culty, on which side the question might be most advantageous- 
ly appi cached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in 
laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in 
debate, or else in terms so general and specious, that the 
hearer, seeing no consequence v/hlch could be drawn from 
them, was just as willing to admit them as not ; but, his 
premises once admitted, the demonstration, however dis- 
tant, followed as certahily, as cogently, and as inevitably, as 
any demonstration of Euclid. 

All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self- 
conviction and emphatic earnestness of his manner ; the 
correspondent simplicity and energy of his style ; the close 
and logical connexion of his thoughts ; and the easy gra- 
dations by which he opens his lights on the attentive mimla 
9f his hearers. 



70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

The audience are never permitted to pause for « 
moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands 'f 
Piowers to be hung in festoons around a favourite argument 
On the contrary, every sentence is progressive; every idea 
sheds new ho-ht on the subject; the Ustener is kept per- 
petually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which 
the mind of man always receives new truths ; the dawn 
advances in easy but unremitting pace ; the subject opens 
gradually on the view ; until, rising in high relief in all 
its native colours and proportions, the argument is consum- 
mated by the conviction of the delighted hearer. 

His political adversaries allege that he is a mere lawyer ; 
that his mind has been so long trammelled by judicial pre- 
cedent, so long Piabituated to the quart and tierce of foren- 
sic digladiation, (as Dr. Johnson would probably have call- 
ed it,) as to be unequal to the discussion of a great ques- 
tion of state. Mr. Curran, in his defence of Rowan, seems 
to have sanctioned the probability of such an effect from 
such a cause, v/hen he complains of his own mind as hav- 
ing been narrowed and circumscribed by a strict and tech- 
nical adherence to established forms ; but, in the next 
breath, an astonishing burst of the grandest thought, and a 
power of comprehension, to which there seems to be no 
earthly limit, proves that his complaint, as it relates to him- 
self, is entirely without foundation. 

Indeed, if the objecfon to the chief justice mean any 
thing m.ore than that he has not had the same illumination 
and exercise in matters of state as if he had devoted his 
life to them, I am unwilling to admit it. The force of a 
cannon is the same, whether pointed at a rampart or a man 
of war, although practice may have made the engineer 
more expert in one case than in the otlier. So it is clear 
that practice may give a man a greater command over one 
class of subjects than another ; but the inherent energy 
oi~ his mind remains the same whithersoever it may be di- 
rected. From this impression, I have neA'er seen any 
cause to wonder at what is called a universal genius : it 
proves only that the man has applied a powerful mind 
to a great variety of subjects, and pays a compliment rather 
to i;is supenor industry than his superior intellect. I am 
very certain tliat the gentleman of whom we arf> speaking 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 7i 

possesses the acumen which niighl constitute him a univer- 
sri genius, according to the usual acceptation of that phrase, 
Dut if he be the truant, wliich his warmest friendu repre- 
sent him to be, there is very Httlc probability that he will 
ever reach tliis distinction. 



Moral Sublimity iUusfraicd. — Wayland. 

Philosophers liave speculated much concerning a pro- 
cess of sensation, whicli lias commonly been denominate'! 
the emotion of sublimity. Aware that, like any other sim- 
ple feeling, it must be incapable of definition, they have 
seldom attempted to define it ; but, content with remarking 
the occasions on which it is excited, have told us that it 
arises in general from tlie contemplation of whatever is 
vast in nature, splendid in intellect, or lofty in morals : or, 
to express the same idea somewhat varied, in the language 
of a critic of antiquity, " That alone is truly sublime, of 
which the conception is vast, the effect irresistible, and the 
remembrance scarcely, if ever, to be erased." 

But, although philosophers alone have written about this 
emotion, they are far from being the only men who have 
felt it. The untutored peasant, when he has seen the au- 
tumnal tempest collecting between the hills, and, as it ad- 
i^anced, enveloping in misty obscurity village and hamlet, 
forest and meadow, has tasted the sublime in all its reality ; 
and, whilst the thunder has rolled and the lightning flashed 
around him, has exulted in the view of Nature moving 
forth in her majesty. The untaught sailor-boy, listlessly 
hearkening to the idle ripple of the moonlight wave, when on 
a sudden he has thought upon the unfathomable abyss be- 
neath him, and the wide waste of waters around him, and 
ihe infinite expanse above him, has enjoyed to the full the 
emotion of sublimity, whilst his inmost soul has trem- 
bled at the vastness of its own conceptions. But why 
need 1 multiply illustrations from nature ? Who does not 
recollect the emotion he has felt while surveying aught, ir 
the material world, of terror or of vastness ? 



72 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

And this sensation is not produced by grandeur in mate- 
rial objects alone. It is also excited on most of those occa- 
sions in which we see man tasking to the uttermost the ener- 
gies of his intellectual or moral nature. Through the long 
lapse of centuries, who, without emotion, has read of Leoni- 
das and his three hundred's throwing themselves as a bar- 
rier before the myriads of Xerxes, and contending unto 
death for the liberties of Greece ? 

But we need not turn to classic story to find all that is 
great in human action ; we find it in our own times, and in 
the history of our own country. Who is there of us that, 
even in the nursery, has not felt his spirit stir within him, 
when, with child-like wonder, he has listened to the story of 
Washington ? And although the terms of the narrative were 
scarcely intelligible, yet the young soul kindled at the 
thought of one man's working out the delivery of a nation. 
And as our understanding, strengthened by age, was at last 
able to grasp the detail of this transaction, we saw thut oui 
infantile conceptions had fallen far short of its grandeur. 
Oh ! if an American citizen ever exults in the contempla- 
tion of all that is subhme in human enterprise, it is when, 
bringing to mind the men wlio first conceived the idea of 
this nation's independence, he beholds then\ esf^riating the 
power of her oppressor, the resources of her citizens, de- 
ciding in their collected might that this nation should be free, 
and, through the long year^j of trial that ensued, never 
blenching from their purpose, but freely redeeming the 
pledge they had given, to consecrate to it " their lives, 
their fortunes, and their sacred honour." 

*' Patriots have toiled, and, in llieir country's cause,^ 
Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. \^'e'';ive in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. T lie historic Muse, 
Proud ot her tre;tsure, marches with it down 
To latest thnes : and Scul;)ture in her turn 
Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass. 
To guard tlietn, and immortalize her trust." 

It is not in the field of patriotism alone that deeds have 
been achieved, to which liistory has awarded the palm of 
moral sublimity. There have lived men, in whom, the 
name of patriot has been merged m that of philanthropist; 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 73 

who, looking with an eye of compassion over the face of 
the earth, have felt for the miseries of our race, and have 
put forth their cahn might to wipe off one blot from the 
marred and stained escutcheon of human nature, to strike 
off one form of suffering from the catalogue of human wo. 
Sucb a man was Howard. Surveying our world like a 
spirit of the blessed, he beheld the misery of the captive — 
he heard the groaning of the prisoner. His determination 
was fixed. He resolved, single-handed, to gauge and to 
measure one form of unpitied, unheeded wretthedness, and, 
bringing it out to the sunshine of public observation, to 
work its utter extermination. And he well knew what this 
undertaking would cost him. Heknew whathe had tohazard 
from the infection of dungeons, to endure from the fatigues 
of inhospitable travel, and to brook from the insolence of 
legalized oppression. He knew tliat he was devoting him- 
self to the altar of philanthropy, and he willingly devoted 
himself. He had marked out his destiny, and he hasted 
forward to its accomplishment, with an intensity, " which 
the nature of the human mind forbade to be more, and the 
cliaracter of the individual forbade to be less." . Thus he 
commenced a new era in the history of benevolence. And 
hence, the name of Howard will be associated with all that 
is sublime in mercy, until the final consummation of all 
things. 

Such a man is Clarkson, who, looking abroad, beheld the 
miseries of Africa, and, looking at home, saw his country 
stained with ner blood. We have seen him, laying aside 
the vestments of the priesthood, consecrate himself to the 
holy purpose of rescuing a continent from rapine and mur- 
der, and of erasing this one sin from the book of his na- 
tion's iniquities. We have seen him and his fellov/ phi- 
lanthropists, for twenty years, never waver from their pur- 
pose. We have seen them persevere amidst neglect and 
obloquy, and contempt, and persecution, until, the cry of the 
ojjpressed having roused the sensibilities of the nation, the 
" Island Empress" rose in her might, and said to this 
foul traffic in human flesh. Thus far shalt thou go, and no 
farther. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of {h& Mingocs. — 
Jefferson. 

I MAY challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes anc 
Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has fut' 
nished more eminent, to produce a single passage superioi 
to the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, 
when governor of this state.* And, as a testimony of their 
talents in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating 
the incidents necessary for understanding it. 

In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was commit- 
ted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the 
river of Ohio. The whites in that quarter, according to their 
custom, undMj-took to punish this outrage in a summary 
way. Captam Michael Cresap and a certain Daniel Great- 
house, leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, 
travelling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their 
women and children with them, and murdered many. 
Among these were unfortunately the family of Logan, a 
chief celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished 
as the friend of the whites. This unworthy return provoked 
his vengeance. He accordingly signalized himself in the war 
which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive 
battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanhaway, be- 
tween the collected forces of the Shawanese,Mingoes, and 
Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. The 
Indians v/ere defeated, and sued for peace. Logan, how- 
ever, disdained to be seen among the suppliants. But, lest 
the sincerity of a treaty should be distrusted, from which 
so distinguished a chief absented himself, he sent, by a 
messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord 
Dunmore. 

'•I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if ever 
he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 
the course of the last long andbloody war, Logan remained 
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my 
love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they 
passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.' ] 
had even thought to have lived with you, but for the inju 



COMMON-PLACE BOoK OF PROSE. 75 

ries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold 
blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Lo 
gan, not even sparing my women and children. There 
runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living 
creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it; 
1 have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance. 
For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do 
not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear : Logan 
never felt fear : he will not turn on his heel to save his 
life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? Not one." 



Fox, Burke, and Pitt. — A. H. Everett. 

If the views of the opposition in parliament, in regard to 
some very important subjects, have received an apparent 
confirmation from the final result of the measures that 
were pursued, the party can also boast the honour of reck- 
oning upon its list of members some of the mostdistinguisli- 
ed statesmen that ever appeared in England or the world 
Not to mention those now living, who would do credit to 
any party or any nation, it may be sufficient to cite the 
illustrious names of Fox and Burke; names that are hardly 
to be paralleled in the records of eloquence, philosophy, and 
patriotism ; and which will only be more closely associated 
in the respect and veneration of future ages, on account of 
the personal schism which grew up between them, and 
which forms one of the most interesting parts of their histo- 
ry. Their difference was rather in regard to policy than 
to principle, both being warm and strenuous friends of lib 
erty ; and, when they differed, they were both partly righl 
and partly wrong. That Burke was judicious and wise in 
discountenancing the too violent spirit of reform, vv'hicb 
was then spreading through the nation, and- threatenina 
ruin to its institutions, and that Fox, in encouraging it, was 
rather influenc^ed by a generous and unreflecting zeal foi 
freedom, than by motives of sound policy, will now hardly be 
denied; and tiie time, perhaps, is not very distant, if it has 
not already arrived, when it will be admitted, with equal 
unanimity, that the policy of making war upon France. 



76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

whether for the purpose of crushing the principles of liber 
ty, or, at a subsequent period, of checking the develope- 
ment of her power, was, throughout, not only unjust, but 
imprudent, and eminently un.brtunate for the ultimate m- 
terests of England; that Burke, by supporting this policy 
with his fervid and powerful eloquence, was unconscious- 
ly doing a serious injury to his country; and that the sys- 
tem of Fox and his friends and successors, in this point, was 
as politic and prudent as it was generous and humane. Af- 
ter thirty years of unheard-of exertion and unexampled 
success, the war seems to have ended by leav'ug an 
open field to the ambition of ^Tnother state, infinitely moie 
formidable and dangerous than France. It may be re- 
marked, however, that this result does not appear to have 
been foreseen By the opposition any more than by the minis- 
tiy. It has generally been the fault of the British states- 
men, of all parties, to regard France merely as a rival state, 
instead of extending their views to the whole European 
system, of which France and England are only members, 
with interests almost wholly in unison. 

Fox and Burke, if I may be allowed to dwell a little 
longer on so pleasing a theme as the characters of these il- 
lustrious statesmen, were not less distinguished for amiable 
personal qualities, and intellectual accomplishments, than 
for commanding eloquence and skill in political science. The 
friends of Fox dwell with enthusiasm and fond regret up- 
on the cordiality of his manners and the unalloyed sweet- 
ness of his disposition. It is unfortunate that the pure 
lustre of these charming virtues was not graced by a suffi- 
cient regard to the dictates of private morality. Burke, on 
the contrary with an equally kind and social spirit, was a 
model of perfection in all the relations of domestic life ; his 
character being at once unsullied by the least stain of 
excess, and exempt from any shade of rigorism or defect 
of humour. While his private virtues made the, happiness 
of his family and friends, his conversation was the charm 
and wonder of the loftiest minds and the most enlightened 
circles of society. He was the only man whom Dr. John- 
son, a great master of conversation, admitted to be capable 
of tasking his powers. The onlj' deduction from the uni- 
form excellence of Burke is said to have been the small at 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 77 

tiaction of his manner in public speaking, a point in which 
Fox was also not particularly successful, but was reckon- 
ed his superior. It would be too rash for an ordinary ob- 
server to undertake to give to either of these two mighty 
minds the palm of original superiority It can hardly 
be denied that that of Burke was better disciplined and 
more accomplished ; and his intellectual reputation, being 
better supported than that of Fox by written memorials, 
will probably stand higher with posterity. Had Fox been 
permitted to finish the historical work which he had be- 
gun, he might, perhaps, have bequeathes to future ages 
a literary monument, superior in dignity and lasting value 
to any thing that remains from the pen of Burke. Both 
possessed a fine and cultivated taste for the beauties of art 
and nature ; that of Fox seems to have been even more 
poetical than his illustrious rival's ; out he has left no writ- 
ten proofs of it equal to the fine philosophical Essay on the 
Sublime and Beautiful. It is but poor praise of this ele- 
gant performance, to say that it is infinitely superior to the 
essay of Longinus on the sublime, from which the hint 
seems to have been taken, and which nothing but a blind 
and ignorant admiration of antiquity could ever have exalt- 
ed into a work of great merit. 

A sagacious critic has advanced the opinion, that the 
merit of Burke was almost wholly literary ; but I confess 
I see little ground for this assertion, if literary excel- 
lence is here understood in any other sense than as an im- 
mediate result of the highest intellectual and moral endow- 
ments. Such compositions as the writings of Burke sup- 
pose, no doubt, the fine taste, the command of language, 
and the finished education, which are all supposed by eve- 
ry description of literary success. But, in the present 
!<tate of society, these qualities are far from being uncom- 
reon ; and are possessed by thousands, who make no pre- 
tension to the eminence of Burke, in the same degree in 
vhich they were by nim. Such a writer as Cumberland, 
for example, who stands infinitely below Burke on the 
scale of intellect, may yet be regarded as his equal or supe- 
rior in purely literary accomplishments, taken in this ex- 
clusive sense. The style of Burke is undoubtedly one of 
the most splendid forms, in which the English language 
7* 



78 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

has ever bean exhibited. It displays the happy and diffi- 
cult union of all the richness and magnificence that good 
taste admits, with a perfectly easy construction. In Burke, 
we see the manly movement of a well-bred gentleman ; 
in Johnson, an equally profound and vigorous thinker, the 
measured march of a grenadier. "We forgive the great 
moralist his stiff and cumbrous phrases, in return for 
the rich stores of thought and poetry which they conceal ; 
but we admire in Burke, as in a fine antique statue, the 
grace with which the large flowing robe adapts itself to 
the majestic dignity of the person. But, with all his litera- 
ry excellence, the peculiar merits of this great man were, 
perhaps, the faculty of profound and philosophical thought, 
and the moral courage which led him to disregard personal 
inconvenience in the expression of his sentiments. Deep 
thought is the informing soul, that every where sustains 
and inspires the imposing grandeur of his eloquence. Even 
in the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, the only work 
of pure literature which he attempted, that is, the only one 
which was not an immediate expression of his views on 
public affairs, there is still the same richness of thought, 
tlie same basis of " divine philosophy," to support the har- 
monious superstructure of the language. And the moral 
courage, which formed so remarkable a feature in his 
character, contributed not less essentially to his literary 
success. It seems to be a law of nature, that the highest 
degree of eloquence demands the union of the noblest 
qualities of character as well as intellect. To think is thb 
highest exercise of the mind ; to say what you think, the 
boldest effort of moral courage ; and both these things are 
required for a really powerful writer. Eloquence without 
thoughts is a mere parade of words; and no man can ex- 
press with spirit and vigour any thoughts but his ov/u. 
This was the secret of the eloquence of Rousseau, which 
is not without a certain analogy in its forms to tliat of 
Burke. The principal of the Jesuits' college one day in- 
quired of him by what art he had been able to write so 
well ; " I said what I thought " replied the unceremonious 
Genevan ; conveying, in these few words, the bitterest sat- 
ire on the system of the Jesuits, and the best explanation 
of his own. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 79 

If, by the criticism above alluded to, it be meant that 
Burke, though an eloquent writer and profound thinker, 
was not an able practical statesman, the position may 
be more tenable, at least for the partisans of the school 
of Fox, but not, perhaps, ultimately more secure. To 
form correct conclusions in forms of practice, in opposition 
to the habitual current of one's opinions and pr(!judices, 
must be considered as the highest proof of practical abili- 
ty ; and this was done by Burke in regard to the French 
revolution. As a member of the opposition, and a uniform 
friend and supporter of liberal principles, he was led by ali 
his habits of thinking, and by all his personal associations, 
to approve it ; and to feel the same excessive desire to 
introduce its principles in England, which prevailed 
among his political friends. But he had sagacity enough to 
see the true interest of his country through the cloud of 
Illusions and associations, and independence enough t: 
proclaim his opinions, with the sacrifice o"^ ^11 his intimate 
connexions. This was at once the height of practical abili- 
ty and disinterested patriotism. If he pushed his ideas to 
exaggeration in regard to foreign affairs, it was still the eX' 
aggeration of a system essentially correct in its domestic.', 
operation. He was rather a British than a European 
statesman; but the moment was so critical at home, that 
he may, perhaps, oe excused for not seeing quite clearly 
what was right abroad ; and it was also not unnatural that 
he should carry to excess the system to which he had sac- 
rificed his prejudices and his friendships. That his systen 
v/as not correct in all its parts may be easily admitted ; but 
f think that, in supporting it, under the circumstances, he 
provad great practical ability; and what system was ever 
adopted, in which it was not possible, thirty years after, tc 
point out faults? 

Bj the side of these celebrated patriots arose another not 
less distinguished, though his name is hardly surrounded, in 
public opinion, with so many amiable and lofty associations ; 
I mean the son of Chatham — " the pilot that weathered 
the storm !" Prejudice itself can hardly refuse to this 
statesman the praise of transcendent endowments, both in- 
tellectual and moral. He had the natural gift of a brilliant 
and easy elo^iition, grest aptitude for despatch of business. 



80 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

aud a singular facility in seeing through, at a glance, and 
developing with perfect clearness, the most intricate com- 
binations of politics and finance. Repossessed, moreover, a 
firmness of purpose, and a determined confidence .in liia 
own system, which finally ensured its success, and which 
afford, perhaps, the strongest proofs he has given cf the ele- 
vation of his character. It was no secondary statesman, 
who could trust undauntedly to himself, when left, as it 
were, alone in Europe, like the tragical Medea, abandoned 
by all the world ; and, in the confidence of his own re- 
sources, could renew his efforts with redoubled vigour. Flis 
admirers will hardly venture to ascribe to him the enlarged 
philosophy, or the v*-armth of heart, that belonged to his 
illustrious colleagues and rivals. The conduct of public 
affairs was the business of his life ; and he neither knew 
nor cared about any other matters. He was born and bred 
to this ; and if he was equal to it, he was also not above it. 
Philosophy and friendship were to him, in the language of 
the law, surplusage ; as Calvinism was to the great Cu- 
jas ^''Udl hoc ad edictum Prcstoris. And though politi- 
cal affairs are of a higher order, and of more extensive 
interest, than any others, yet, when the conduct of them is 
pursued mechanically, like a mere professional employ- 
ment, it becomes, like other professions, a matter of routine 
and drudgery. Thus, while Burke and Fox appear like 
beings of a different class, descending from superior regions 
to interest themselves in the welfare of mortals, Pitt pre- 
sents himself to the mind as the first of mere politicians, 
but still as a mere politician like the rest. His eloquence 
is marked by the stamp of his character. It pursues a 
clear and rapid course, neither falling below, nor rising 
above, the elevation of his habitual themes. No attempt to 
sound the depths of thought, or soar on the wings of fancy, still 
less to touch the fine chords of feeling, but all a -}- &, an ele- 
gant solution of political problems very nearly in the man- 
ner of algebra. This profuse and interminable flow of words 
is not in itself either a rare or remarkable endowment. It 
is wholly a thing of habit, and is exercised by every vil- 
lage lawyer with various degrees of power and grace. 
Lord Londonderry, though he wants the elegant correct- 
ticss of language, as well as the lofty talents of his great 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 81 

predecessor, commands an equally ready and copious elo« 
cation. In the estimate of Mr. Pitt's powers, I have not 
caken into account the errors of his foreign policy, because 
an erroneous judgment is not always a proof of inferior 
talents, but often only argues a false position. The misfor- 
tune of having countenanced and joined in the crusade 
against the French, and the merit of having resisted the 
spirit of revolution at home, belong alike to Pitt and to 
Burke. The praise of a clearer and more generous view 
of foreign politics is due to Fox ; though his plan is not al- 
ways bottomed on the most enlarged system of European 
relations, and although his glory is somewhat clouded by 
his too precipitate zeal for political novelties at home. 



'Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians. — 
Miss Sedgwick. 

Magawisca paused a few moments, sighed deeply, 
and then began the recital of the last acts in the tragedy 
of her people, the principal circumstances of which are de- 
tailed in the chronicles of the times, by the witnesses of the 
bloody scenes. " You know," she said, " our fortress-homes 
were on the level summit of a hill. Thence we could see, 
as far as the eye could stretch, our hunting-grounds, and our 
gardens, which lay beneath us on the borders of a stream that 
glided around our hill, and so near to it, that in the still nights 
we could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams were 
encompassed with a palisade, formed of young trees, and 
branches interwoven and sharply pointed. No enemy's foot 
had ever approached this nest, which the eagles of the tribe 
had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus and my 
father were both away on that dreadful night. They had 
railed a council of our chiefs, and old men; our youn^ 
CiBH had been out in their canoes, and, when thev -eturned, 
they had danced and feasted, and were now in aeep sleep. 
My mother was in her hut with her children, not sleeping, 
tor my brother Samoset had lingered behind his compaa' 
ions, and had not yet returned from the water-sport. The 
warning spirit, that ever keeps its station at a mother's pil- 



82 COflMOX-PIiACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

lov,', whispered that some evil was near ; and my mother 
bidding me lie stiil with the little ones, v.'ent forth in que*^ 
of my brother. 

" AH the servants of the Great Spirit spoke to my moth- 
er's ear and eye of danger and death. The moon, as sL.e 
sunk behind the hills, appeared a ball of fire: strange lights 
darted through the air; to my mother's eye they seemed 
fiery arrows ; to her ear the air was filled with death- 
sighs. 

" Slie had passed th> palisade, and was descending the 
hill, when she met old Cushmakin. "Do you know aught 
of my boy.'" she asked, 

'• Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions ; he 
returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be 
trodden by the strong-limbed and light-footed." 

*"My boy is safe," said my mother; •' then tell me, for 
thou art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future, 
tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe ?" Slie then de- 
scribed the omens she had seen. '• I know not," said Cush- 
makin; " of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all 
is black there, as before those eyes, that the arrows of 
death hath pierced ; but tell me, Monoco, what see you 
now in the fields of heaven?" 

'■'Oh, now," said my motlier, " I see nothing but the 
blue depths and the watching stars. The spirits of the air 
have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like 
an infant's breath. The water-spirits are rising, and will 
soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe." 

"The boy sleeps safely," muttered the old man, " and I 
have listened to the idle fear of a doting mother." 

" I come not of a fearful race," said my mother. 

"Nay, that I did not mean," replied Cushmakin; '■' but 
the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe." The 
night was far spent, and my mother bade him go home 
with her, for our powwows have always a mat in the wig- 
wam of their chief. " Nay," he said, " the day is near 
and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun." Itseera* 
ed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of 
the old man's soul, and he saw again the flushed hills, and 
the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize, 
and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just pas* 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 83 

ins the little gate of the palisade, v/hen the old man s clo<» 
sprang- from him with a fearful bark. A rushing- sound 
was heard. '"Owanox! Owanox ! (the English ! tiie Eng 
lish! ") cried Cr.shmakin. My mother joined her voice to 
his, and m an instant the cry of alarm spread through the 
wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had 
surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire." 

" Was it so sudden ? Did they so rush on sleeping 
women and children .''" asked Everell, who was uncon- 
sciously lending all his interest to the party of the Nar- 
rator. 

"Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor We 
quash; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shield- 
ed the captive English maidens — he who had eaten from 
my father's dish, and slept on his mat. They were flank- 
ed by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the 
sight of our tribe — who were pale as white men at the 
thought of Sas3acus,and so feared him that, when his name 
was spoken, they were like an unstrung bow, and they 
said, ' He is all one God — no man can kill him.' These 
cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack 

"Then," said Everell, "as 1 have h'^-^rd, our people haa 
all the honour of the fight?" 

"Honour! was it, Everell? — ye shall hear. Our war- 
riors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the 
huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought 
as if each man had a hundred lives, and vv'^ould give each 
and all to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray, 
even now, rings in my ears i Those fearful guns, that 
we had never heard before — the shouts of your people — 
our own battle-yell — the piteous cries of the little children 
— the groans of our mothers, and, oh ! v/orse — worse thai 
all — the silence of those that could not speak. — The English 
fell back; they were driven to the palisade, some beyond 
it when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led 
the way to my mother's. Samoset, the noble boy, defend- 
ed the entrance with a princelike courage, till they struck 
him down; prostrate and bleeding, he again bent his bow, 
and liad tr^ken deadly aim at the English leader, when a 
sabre-blow severed his bow-string. Then was taken from 
our hearth-stone, v/here the-' EnffLih had been so ofteo 



84 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 

warmed and cherished, the brand to consume our dwell 
ings. They were covered with matr;, and burnt like dried 
straw. The enemy retreated without the palisade. In 
vain did our warriors fight for a path by which we might 
escape from the consuming fire ; they were beaten back ; 
the lierce element gained on us ; the Narragansetts pres:-*- 
ed on the English, howling like wolves for their prey 
Some of our people threw themselves into the midst of the 
crackling flames, and their courageous souls parted with 
one shout of triumph '.. others mounted the palisade, but 
they were shot, and dropped like a flock of birds smitten by 
the hunter's arrows. Thus did the strangers destroy, in' 
our own homes, hundreds of our tribe." 

" And how did you escape in that dreadful hour, Maga- 
wisca ? — you were not then taken prisoners ?" 

" No ; there was a rock at one extremity of our hut. 
and beneath it a cavity, into which my mother crept, with 
Oneco, myself, and the two little ones that afterwards per- 
ished. Our simple habitations were soon consumed ; we 
heard the foe retiring, and, when the last sound had died 
away, we came forth to a sight that rnade us lament to be 
among the living. The sun Vi^as scarce an hour from his 
rising, and yet in this brief space our homes had vanished 
The bodies of our people were strewn about the smoulder- 
ing ruin ; and all around the palisade lay the strong and 
valiant warriors — cold — silent — powerless as the unformed 
clay." 

Magawisca paused ; she was overcome with the recol- 
lection of this scene of desolation. She looked upward 
witli an intent gaze, as if she held communion with an in- 
visible being. " Spirit of my mother !" burst from her 
lips — " oh ! that 1 could follow thee to that blessed land, 
wheie I should no more dread the war-cry, nor the death- 
knife." F.verell dashed the gathering tears from his eyes, 
and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative. 

" While we all stood silent and motionless, we heard foot- 
steps and cheerful voices. They came from my father and 
Sassacus, and their band, returning from the friendly coun- 
cil. They approached on the side of the hill that was cov- 
ered with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at once 
burst upon their view. Oh ! what horrid sounds then 



rOA] MOW-PLACE IJOUK OF PkOSE. 86 

pealed on the air ! shouts of v*^ailing, and cries of ven- 
l^eance. Every eye was turned with suspicion and hatred 
on my father. He had been the friend of the Enghsh ; 
he had counselled peace and alliance with them ; he had 
protected their traders ; delivered the captives taken from 
tliemj and restored them to their people : now his wife and 
children alone were living, and they called him traitor. I 
heard an angry murmur, and many hands were lifted to 
strike the death-blow. He moved not — ' Nay, nay,' cried 
Sassacus, beating them off. ' Touch him not ; his soul u 
uiight as the sun ; sooner shall you darken that, than fii.d 
treason in his breast. If he hath shown the dove's heart 
to the English, when he believed them friends, he will 
show himself the fierce eagle, now he knows them enemies. 
Touch him not, warriors ; remember my blood runneth in 
his veins.' 

" From that moment my father was a changed man. He 
neither spoke nor looked at his wife, or children; but 
placing himself at the head of one band of the young men, 
he shouted his war-cry, and then silently pursued the ene- 
my. Sassacus went forth to assemble the tribe, and Ave 
followed my mother to one of our villages." 

" You did not tell me, Magawisca," said Everell, "how 
Saraoset perished ; was hr. consumed in the flames, or shot 
from the palisade ?" 

"Neither — neithei. He was reserved .to whet my fa- 
ther's revenge to a still keener edge. He had forced a 
passage through the English, and, hastily collecting a few 
warriors, they pursued the enemy, sprung upon them from 
a covert, and did so annoy them that the English turned, 
and gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and him 
they took prisoner. They told him they would spare his 
life if he would guide them to our strong holds ; he refused. 
He had, Everell, lived but sixteen summers ; he loved the 
light of the sun even as we love it ; his man^y spirit was 
tamed by wounds and weariness ; his limbs v^qiq like a 
bending leed, and his heart beat like a woman's 5 but the 
fire of liis soul burnt clear. Again they pressed him with 
offeis of life and reward; he faithfully refused, and with 
one sabre-stroke they severed his head from his body." 
ft 



86 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Maga Tisca paused — she looked at Everell, and said witi 
a bitter smile — " You English tell us, Everell, that the book 
of youi- law is better than that written on our hearts, for, ye 
say, it teaches mercy, compassion, forgiveness — if ye had 
such a law, and believed it, would ye thus have treated a 
captive boy ?" 

Slagawisca's reflecting mind suggested the most serious 
obstacle to the progress of the Christian religion, in all 
a^;o3 and under all circumstances ; the contrariety between 
iti divine principles and the conduct of its professors : v»iiich, 
.iistead of always being a medium for the light that eina- 
iiuies from our holy law, is too often the darkest cloud that 
obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen 
i.iea. Everell had been carefully instructed in the princi- 
ples of his religion, and he felt Magawisca's relation to te 
an awkward comment on them, and her inquir}'^ natural 
but, though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure 
there must be a good one, and, mentally resolving to refer 
the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed 
with her narrative. 

" The fragments of our broken tribe," she said, " were 
collected, and some other small dependant tribes persuaded 
to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds, 
and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English sur- 
rounded us ; they sent in to us a messenger, and offered 
life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Eng- 
lishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us, as fright- 
ened birds fly from a falling tree. My father looked upon 
his warriors ; they answered that look with their battle- 
shout. ' Tell your people,' said my father to the messen- 
ger, ' that we have shed and drank English blood, and that 
we will take nothing from them but death.' The messen- 
ger departed, and again returned with offers of pardon, if 
we would come forth, and lay our arrows and our toma- 
hawks at the feet of the English. ' What say you, war- 
riors ?' cried my father — ' shall we take pardon from those 
who have burned your wives and children, and given your 
homes to the beasts of prey ? — who haA'^e robbed you of your 
hunting-grounds, and driven your canoes from their wa- 
ters '' A hundred arrows were pomted to the messenger. 
Enough — you have your answer,' said my father; and 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 87 

the messenger returned to announce the fate we had 
chosen." 

" Where was Sassacus ? — had he abandoned his people .'" 
asked Everell. 

" Abandoned them ! No — ^his Ufe was in theirs ; but, ac- 
customed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be 
thus driven like a fox to his hole. His soul was sick with- 
in him, and he was silent, and left all to my father. All 
day .we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the 
trees that defended us, and, when night came, they had ap- 
proached so near,^ that we could see the glimmering of their 
watch-lights through the branches of the trees. All night 
they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors, 
women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my 
mother's feet, when he received a death-wound. Gasping 
for breath, he called on Sassacus and my father — ' Stay not 
here,' he said ; ' look not on your wives and children, but 
burst your prison bound ; sound through the nations the 
cry of revenge ! Linked together, ye shall drive the Eng- 
lish into the sea. I speak the word of the Great Spirit 
— obey it !' While he was yet speaking, he stiffened in 
death. ' Obey him, warriors,' cried my mother ; ' see,' 
she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself 
around the wood like a thick curtain — ' see, our friends 
have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look 
not on us — our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, but 
we can die before our enemies without a groan. Go forth 
and avenge us.' 

" ' Have we come to the counsel of old men and old 
women !' said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit. 

*' ' When women put down their womanish thoughts and 
counsel like men, they should be obeyed,' said my father 
' Follow me, warriors.' 

" They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing 
more, but we heard the shout from the foe, as they issued 
from the wood — the momentary fierce encounter and the 
cry, ' They have escaped !' Then it was that my m^other, 
who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself 
down on the mossy stones, and, laying her hot cheek to 
mine — ' Oh, my children — my children !* she said, ' would 
that I could die for you ! But fear not death — the blood 



88 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 

of a hundred chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth m 
your veins. Hcrk, the enemy comes nearer and nearer. 
Now hft up your heads, my children, and show them that 
even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in souL' 

" We rose from the ground — all about sat women and 
children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate. 
The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were 
already on the little rising-ground where we had been in- 
irenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted — not a 
movement was made — not a voice lifted — not a sound es- 
caped, save the wailings of the dying children. 

" One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a com- 
mand was given that her life and that of her children 
should be spared. A guard was stationed round us. 

" You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, we 
were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some 
were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free 
limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are 
among your people those who have not put out the light 
of the Great Spirit ; they can remember a kindness, albeit 
done by an Indian : and when it was known to your sa- 
chems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector 
and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated 
her with honour and gentleness. But her people were 
extinguished — her husband driven to distant forests — forced 
on earth to the misery of wicked souls — to wander without 
a home ; her children were captives — and her heart was 
hrokcn." 



Character of Fisher Ames. — Kirklaxd. 

Mr. Ames, as a speaker and a writer, had the power fj 
enlighten and persuade, to move, to please, to charm, to 
astonish. He united those decorations, which belong to 
fine talents, to that penetration and judgment, that des- 
ignate an acute and solid mind. Many of his opinions 
had the authority of predictions fulfilled and fulfilling. He 
had the ability of investigation, and, where it was neces- 
sary, did investigate with patient attention, going through 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I'ROSE. 8J« 

3 series of observation and deduction, and tracing the links 
vviiich connect one truth with another. When the result 
of his researches was exhibited in discourse, the t^teps of a 
logical process were in some measure concealed by the 
colouring of rhetoric. Minute calculation and dry details 
were employments, however, the leasi adapted to his pe 
ouliar construction of mind. It was easy and delightful 
for him to illustrate by a picture, but painful and laborious 
to prove by a diagram. It was the prerogative of his mind 
to discern by a glance, so rapid as to seem intuition, those 
truths which common capacities struggle hard to appre- 
hend ; and it was the part of his eloquence to display, ex- 
pand and enforce them. 

His imagination was a distinguishing feature of his mind. 
Prolific grand, sportive, original, it gave him the command 
of nature and of art, and enabled him to vary the disposi- 
tion and the dress of his ideas without end. Now it as- 
sembled most pleasing images, adorned with all that is soft 
and beautiful ; and now rose in the storm, wielding the ele- 
ments, and flashing in the most awful splendours. Very 
few men have produced more original combinations. He 
presented resemblances and contrasts, which none saw be- 
fjre, but all admitted to te just and striking. In delicate 
and powerful wit he W£-S pre-eminent. 

The exercise of these talents and accomplishments was 
guided and exalted by a sublime morality and the spirit of 
rational piety, was modelled by much good taste, and 
prompted by an ardent heart. 

He was more adapted to the senate than the bar. His 
speeches in congress, always respectable, were many of 
them excellent, abounding in argument and sentiment, 
having all the necessary information, embellished with 
rhetorical beauties, and animated by patriotic fires. 

So much of the skill and address of the orator do they 
exhibit, that, though he had little regard to the rules of the 
art, they are perhaps fair examples of the leading precepts 
for the several parts of an oration. In debates on impor- 
tant questions, he generally waited before he spoke till the 
discussion had proceeded at some length, when he was 
sure to notice every argument tliat had been offered. Ke 
was sometimes in a minor 'ty, when he well considered the 



50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

temper of a majority in a republican assembly, impalieii 
of contrafliction, refutation, or detection, claiming to be 
allowed sincere in tbeir convictions, and disinterested in 
tiieir views. lie was noi unsuccessful in uniting the pru- 
dence and conciliation, necessary in parliamentary speak- 
ing, with lawful freedom in debate, and an effectual use 
of those sharp and massy weapons, which his talents sup- 
plied, and which his frankness and zeal prompted him to 
CTiploy. 

He did not systematically study the exterior graces of 
speaking, but his attitude was erect and easy, his gestures 
Hianly and forcible, his intonations varied and expressive, 
his articulation distinct, and his whole manner animated 
and natural. His written compositions, it will be per- 
ceived, have that glow and vivacity which belong to his 
speeches. 

All the other efforts of his mind, however, were proba- 
bly exceeded by his powers in conversation. He appear- 
ed among his friends with an illuminated face, and, with 
peculiar amenity and captivating kindness, displayed all 
the playful felicity of his wit, the force of his intellect, and 
the fertility of his imagination. 

On the kind or degree of excellence which criticisn 
may concede or deny to Mr. Ames's productions, we do 
not undertake with accurate discrimination to determine. 
He was undoubtedly rather actuated by the genius of ora- 
tory, than disciplined by the precepts of rhetoric ; was 
more intent on exciting attention and interest, and produc- 
ing effect, than securing the praise of skill in the artifice 
of composition. Hence critics may be dissatisfied, yet hear- 
ers charmed. The abundance of materials, the energy and 
quickness of conception, the inexhaustible fertility of nimd, 
wliich he possessed, as they did not require, so they for- 
bade, a rigid adherence to artificial guides, in the dispo- 
sition and employment of his intellectual stores. To a cer- 
tain extent, such a speaker and writer may claim to be his 
own authority. 

Image crowded upon image in his mind, yet he is not 
chargeable wnth affectation in the use of figurative lan- 
guage ; his tropes are evidently prompted by imagination, 
qnd not forced into service. Their novelty and variety' 



OOMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOiE. 91 

create constant surprise and delight. But they are per- 
haps too lavishly employed. The fancy ot' his hearers is 
sometimes overplied with stimulus, and the importance ojf 
the thought liable to be concealed in the multitude and 
beauty cf the metaphors. His condensation of expression 
may br thought to produce occasional abruptness. He 
aimed rather at the terseness, strength, and vivacity of the 
short sentence, than at the dignity of the full and f owing 
period. His style is conspicuous for sententious bi evity, 
for antithesis and point. Single ideas appear with so much 
prominence, that the connexion of the several parts of his 
discourse is not always obvious to the common mind, and 
the aggregate impression of the composition is not always 
completely obtained. In these respects, where his peculiar 
excellences came near to defects, he is rather to be ad* 
mired than imitated. 

Mr. Ames, though trusting much to his native resources, 
did by no means neglect to apply the labours of others to 
his own use. His early love of books he retained and 
cherished through the whole of his life. He was particu- 
larly fond of ethical studies ; but he went more deeply 
into history than any other branch of learning. Here he 
sought the principles of legislation, the science of politics, 
the causes of the rise and decline of nations, and the char- 
acters and passions of men acting in public affairs. He read 
Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, Tac'tus, Plutarch, and the 
m.odern historians of Greece and Rome. The English his- 
tory he studied with much care. Hence he possessed a 
great fund of historical knowledge, always at command, 
both for conversation and writing. He contemplated the 
character of Cicero as an orator and statesman with fervent 
admiration. 

He never ceased to be a lover of the poets. Homer, in 
Pope, he often perused ; and* he read Virgil in the original, 
within two years of his death, with increased delight. His 
knowledge of the French enabled him to read their authors, 
though not to speak their language. He was accustomed 
to read the Scriptures, not only as containing a system of 
truth and duty, but as displaying, in the^r poetical parts, 
all that is sublime, animated and affecting in compositiop 



92 COiniON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE. 

His learning seldom appeared as such, but was interwoven 
with his thoughts, and became his own. 

In public speaking he trusted much to excitement, and 
did little more in his closet than draw the outlines of his 
speech, and reflect on it till he had received deeply the 
impressions he intended to make ; depending for the turns 
and igures of language, illustrations and modes of appeal 
to the passions, on his imagination and feelings at the time. 
This excitement continued when the cause had ceased to 
operate. After debate his mind was agitated, like the ocean 
after a storm, and his nerves were like the shrouds of £ 
ship, torn by the tempest. He brought his mind much in 
contact with the minds of others,- ever pleased to converse 
on subjects of public interest, and seizing every hint that 
might be useful to him in writing for the instruction of his 
fellow-citizens. He justly thought that persons below him 
in capacity might have good ideas, which he might em- 
ploy in the correction and improvement of his own. His 
attention was alwaj^s awake to grasp the materials that came 
.to him from every source. A constant labour was going 
on in his mind. He never sunk from an elevated tone of 
thought and action, nor suffered his faculties to slumber in 
indolence. The circumstances of the times, in which he 
was called to act, contributed to elicit his powers, and sup- 
ply fuel to his genius. The greatest interests were sub- 
jects of debate. When he was in the national legislature, 
the spirit of party did not tie the hands of the public func- 
tionaries ; and questions, on which depended the peace or 
war, the safety or danger, the freedom or dishonour, of the 
country, might be greatly influenced by the coinsels and 
efforts of a single patriot. 

Mr. Ames's character as a patriot rests on the highest 
and firmest ground. He loved his country with equal pu- 
rity and fervour. This affection was the spring of all h-s 
efforts to promote her welfare. The glory of being a ben- 
efactor to a great people he could not despise, but justly 
valued. He was covetous of the fame purchased by des- 
ert ; but he was above ambition ; and popularity, except 
as an instrument of public service, weighed nothing in the 
balance by which he estimated good and evil. Had he 
Fought power only, he would have devoted himself to that 



COMMOiN-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 93 

party, in whose gift he foresaw it would be placed. His 
first election, though highly flattering, was equally un- 
sought and unexpected, and his acceptance of it interrupt- 
ed his chosen plan of life. It obliged him to sacrifice the 
advantages of a profession, which he needed, and placed in 
uncertainty his prospects of realizing the enjoyments ol 
domestic life, which he considered the highest species of 
happiness. But he found himself at the disposal of others 
and did not so much choose, as acquiesce, in his destination 
to the national legislature. 

The objects of religion presented themselves with a 
strong interest to his mind. The relation of the world to 
its Author, and of this life to a retributory scene in another, 
could not be contemplated by him without the greatest so- 
lemnity. The religious sense was, in his view, essential 
n the constitution of man. He placed a full reliance on 
the divine origin of Christianity. If there ever was a time 
in his life when the light of revelation shone dimly upon 
his understandiug, he did not rashly close his mind against 
clearer vision ; for he was more fearful of mistakes to the 
disadvantage of a system, which he saw to be excellent 
and benign, than of prepossessions in its favour. He felt 
it his duty and interest to inquire, and discover on the side 
of faith, a fulness of evidence little short of demonstration. 
Al about thirty-five he made a public profession of his faith 
in the Christian religion, and was a regular attendant on 
its services. In regard to articles of belief, his conviction 
was confined to those leading principles, about which 
Christians have little diversity of opinion. Subtile ques- 
tions of theology, from various causes often agitated, but 
never determined, he neither pretended nor desired to in- 
vestigate, satisfied that they related to points uncertain or 
unimportant. He loved to view religion on the practical 
side, as designed to operate, by a few simple and grand 
truth:;, on the affections, actions and habits of men. His 
conversation and behaviour evinced the sincerity of his re- 
ligious impressions. No levity upon these subjects ever 
escaped his, lips ; but his manner of recurring to them in 
conversation indicated reverence and feeling. The sublime, 
the affecting character of Christ, he never mentioned with- 
out emotion. 



94 COMJV10N-PLAC£ BOOK OF PROSE. 

He was gratefully sensible of the peculiar felicity of hij 
domestic life. In his beloved home his sickness found ali 
the alleviation, that a judicious and unwearied tenderness 
could minister ; and his intervals of health a succession of 
every pleasing enjoyment and heartfelt satisfaction. The 
complacency of his looks, the sweetness of his tones, his 
mild and often playful manner of imparting instruction, 
evinced his extreme delight in the society of his family, 
who felt that they derived from him their chief happiness, 
and found in his conversation and example a constant ex- 
citement to noble and virtuous conduct. As a husband 
and father, he was all that is provident, kind, exemplary. 
He was riveted in the regards of those who were in his 
service. He felt all the ties of kindred. The delicacy, 
the ardour, and constancy, with which he cherished his 
friends, his readiness to the offices of good neighbourhood, 
and his propensity to contrive and execute plans of public 
improvement, formed traits in his character, each of re- 
markable strength. He cultivated friendship by an active 
and punctual correspondence, which made the number of 
his letters very great, and which are not less excellent 
than numerous. 

Mr. Ames in person a little exceeded the middle height, 
was well proportioned, and remarkably erect. His features 
were regular, his aspect respectable and pleasing, his eye 
expressive of benignity and intelligence. In his man- 
ners he was easy, affable, cordial, inviting confidence, yet 
inspiring respect. He had that refined spirit of society, 
which observes the forms of real, but not studied polite- 
ness, and paid a most delicate regard to the propriety of 
conversation and behaviour. 



Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jeffers ri.— 
Sergeant. 

Time in its course has produced a striking ?poch in the 
history of our favoured country ; and, as if to mark with 
peculiar emphasis this interesting stage of our national ex- 
istence, it comes to us accompanied with incidents calcu* 



f-OMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 05 

lated to make a powerful and lasting impression. The 
dawn of the fiftieth anniversary of independence beamed 
upon two venerable and illustrious citizens, to whom, under 
Providence, a nation acknowledged itself greatly indebted 
for the event which the day was set apart to commemorate. 
Theone was the author, the other was "the ablest advocate," 
of that solemn assertion of right, that heroic defiance of un- 
just power, which, in the midst of difficulty and danger, 
proclaimed the determination to assume a separate and equal 
station among the powers of the earth, and declared to the 
world the causes which impelled to this decision. Both 
had stood by their country with unabated ardour and un- 
wavering fortitude, through every vicissitude of her for- 
tune, until the " glorious day" of her final triumph crown- 
ed their labours and their sacrifices with complete success. 
Vfith equal solicitude, and with equal warmth of patriotic 
affection, they devoted their great faculties, which had been 
employed in vindicating the rights of their country, to con- 
struct for her, upon deep and strong foundations, the solid 
edifice of social order, and of civil and religious freedom. 
They had both held the highest public employment, and 
were distinguished by the highest honours the nation could 
confer. Arrived at an age when nature seems to demand 
repose, each had retired to the spot from which the public 
exigencies had first called him, — his public labours ended, 
his v/ork accomplished, his country prosperous and happy, — 
there lo indulge in the blessed retrospect of a well-spent 
life, and await that period which comes to all; — but not to 
awai"*. it in idleness or indifference. The same spirit of 
active benevolence, which made the meridian of their lives 
resplendent with glory, continued to shed its lustre upon 
their evening path. Still intent upon doing good, still de- 
voteo to the great cause of human happiness and improve- 
ment, neither of these illustrious men relaxed in his exer- 
tions. They seemed only to concentrate their energy, as 
ttge and increasing infirmity contracted the circle of action, 
bestowing, without ostentation, their latest efTorts upon the 
tstate and neighbourhood in which they resided. There, 
with patriarchal simolicity, they lived, the objects of a 
nation's grateful remembrance and affection; the living 
records of a nation's history ; the charm of an age which 



96 COMIiON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

they delighted, adorned and instructed by their vivid 
sketches of times that are past ; and, as it were, the ini- 
bodied spirit of the revolution itself, in all its purity and 
force, diffusing its wholesome influence through the gen- 
erations that have succeeded, rebuking every sinister de- 
sign, and invigorating every manly and virtuoCis resolution. 

The Jubilee came,' — the great national commemoration 
of a nation's birth, — the fiftieth year of deliverance from 
a foreign rule, wrought out by exertions, and sufferings, and 
sacrifices of the patriots of the revolution. It found these 
illustrious and venerable men, full of honours and full of 
years, animated with the proud recollection of the times 
in which they had borne so distinguished a part, and cheer- 
ed by the beneficent and expanding influence of their 
patriotic labours. The eyes of a nation were turned to- 
wards them with affection and reverence. They heard the 
first song of triumph on that memorable day. As the 
voice of millions of freemen rose in gratitude and joy, they 
both sunk gently to rest, and their spirits departed in the 
midst of the swelling chorus of national enthusiasm. 

Death has thus placed his seal upon the lives of these 
two eminent men with impressive solemnity. A gracious 
Providence, whose favours have "been so often manifested 
in mercy to our country, has been pleased to allow them 
an unusual length of time, and an uncommon continuance 
of their extraordinary faculties. They have been, as it 
were, united in death; and they have both, in a most sig- 
nal manner, been associated in the great event which 
they so largely contributed to produce. Henceforward the 
names of Jefferson and Adams can never be separated from 
the Declaration of Independence. Whilst that venerated 
instrument shall continue to exist, as long as its sacred 
spirit shall dwell with the people of this nation, or the free 
institutions that have grown out of it be preserved and 
respected, so long will our children, and omv children's chil- 
dren, to the latest generation, bless the names of these our 
illustrious benefactors, and cherish their memory with reve- 
rential respect. The Jubilee, at each return, will bring 
back, with renovated force, the lives and the deaths of these 
distinguished men •, and History, with the simple pencil of 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. »l 

Truth, sketching the wonderful coincidence, will, for once 
at least, set at defiance all the powers of poetry and ro- 



Indolence. — Dej^nie. 

• How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard ? When will Ihou arise out 
of sleep?" 

Not until you have had another nap, you reply ; not 
tiM there has been a little more folding of the hands ! 

Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to 
define man. I never was satisfied with their labours : ab- 
surd to pronounce him a two-legged, unfeathcred animal, 
when it is obvious he is a sleepy one. In this world there 
is business enough for every individual: a sparkling sky 
over his head to admire, a soil under his feet to till, and 
innumerable objects, useful and pleasant, to choose. But 
such in general is the provoking indolence of our species, 
that the lives of many, if impartially journalized, might 
be truly said to have consisted of a series of slumbers. 
Some men are infested with day dreams, as well as by 
visions of the night : they travel a certain insipid round, 
like the blind horse of the mill, and, as Bolingbroke ob- 
serves, perhaps beget others to do the like after them. They 
may sometimes open their eyes a little, but they are soon 
dimmed by some lazy fog ; they may sometimes stretch a 
limb, but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastination. 
Yawning, amid tobacco fumes, they seem to have no hopes, 
except that their bed will soon be made, and no fears, ex- 
cept that their slumbers will be broken by business clam- 
ouring at the door. 

How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question 
cf Solomon, in the text, " When wilt thou arise out of 
sl( ep ?" The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an ac- 
tive one, from the temple which he erected and the books 
which he composed, saw, when he cast h's eyes around 
the city, half his subjects asleep. Though m many a wise 
proverb he had warned them of the baneful effects of in- 
9 



98 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

dolence, they were deaf to his charming voice, and blind 
to his noble example. The men servants and the maid 
servants, whom he had hired, nodded over their domestic 
duties in the royal kitchen, and when, in the vineyards he 
had planted, he looked for grapes, lo, they brough forth 
wild grapes, for the vintager was drowsy. 

At' the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against 
pillows, and never was there more occasion for a sermon. 
Our country being at peace, not a drum is heard to rouse 
the slothful. But, though we are exempted from the tu- 
mults and vicissitudes of war, we should remember that 
there are many posts of duty, if not of danger, and at these 
we should vigilantly stand. If we will stretch the hand 
of exertion, means to acquire competent wealth, and honest 
fame, abound, and when such ends are in view, how shameful 
to close our eyes ! He who surveys the paths of active life, 
will find them so numerous and long, that he will feel the 
necessity of early rising, and late taking rest, to accomplish 
so much travel. He who pants for the shade of speculation, 
will find that literature cannot flourish in the ^owers of in- 
dolence and monkish gloom. Much midnight oil must be 
consumed, and innumerable pages examined, by him whose 
object is to be really wise. Few hours has that man to 
sleep, and not one to loiter, who has many coffers of wealth 
to fill, or many cells in his memory to store. 

Among the various men, whom I see in the course of my 
pilgrimage through this world, I cannot frequently find 
those who are broad awake. Sloth, a powerful magician, 
mutters a witching spell, and deluded mortals tamely suffer 
this drowsy being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All 
their activity is ernployed in turning themselves like the 
door on a rusty hinge, and all the noise they make in the 
world is a snore. When I see one, designed by nature for 
noble purposes, indolently declining the privilege, and, heed- 
less, like Esau, bartering the birthright, for what is of less 
^vorth than his red pottage of lentils, — for liberty to sit still 
and lie quietly, — I think I see, not a man, but an oyster 
The drone in society, like that fish on our shores, might as 
well be sunken in the mud, and enclosed in a shell, as 
stretched on a couch, or seated in a chimney-corner 



erOMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 99 

The season is now approaching fast, when some of the 
most plausible excuses for a little 7no re sleep must fail. Eb.- 
ervated by indulgence, the slothful are of all men most im« 
patient of cold, and they deem it never more intense than 
m the morning. But the last bitter month has rolled 
away, and now, could I persuade to the experiment, the 
sluggard may discover that he may toss off the bed-quilt, 
and try the air of early day, without being congealed ! 
He may be assured that sleep is a very stupid employment, 
and differs very little from death, except in duration. He 
may receive it implicitly, upon the faith both of the physi- 
cian and the preacher, that morning is friendly to the health 
and the heart ; and if the idler is so manacled by the chains 
of habit, that he can, at first, do no more, he will do wise- 
ly and well to inhale pure air, to watch the rising sun, and 
mark the magnificence of nature. 



Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain WJiarton. — 
Cooper. 

The road which it was necessary for the pedler and the 
English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of 
the hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of 
the building, that had so recently been the prison of the 
latter ; running for the whole distance over the rich plain, 
that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here 
vise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases ; it then 
turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the 
windings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the 
Highlands. 

To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, 
Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and 
maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his 
assumed character. On their right, the regiment of foot, 
that we have already mentioned, lay in tents ; and the sen- 
tinels, who guarded their encampment, were to be seen 
moving, with measured tread, under the skirts of the hills 
themselves The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, 
to urge the beast he rode tc his greatest speed at once, and 



lOO COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

by a coup-de-main, not only to accomplish his escape, bu 
relieve himself irom the torturing suspense of his situation 
But the forward movement that the vouth made for this 
purpose was instantly checked by the pedler. 

" Hold up!" he cried, dexterously reining his own horse 
across the path of the other; " would you ruin us both ? 
Fall into the place of a black following his master. Did 
3^ou not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, 
standing in the sun before the house ? How ^ong do you 
think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold 
his speed, if pursued by the Virginians ? Every foot that 
we can gain without giving the alarm, counts us a day 
in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account 
look back. They are as subtle as foxes, ay, and as rave- 
nous for blood as wolves." 

Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and follow- 
ed the direction of the pedler. His imagination, however, 
continually alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit ; 
though Birch, who occasionally looked back under the pre- 
sence of addressing his companion, assured him that all 
continued quiet and peaceful. 

" But," said Henry, " it will not be possible for Cassar 
to remain long undiscovered : had we not better put our 
horses to the gallop ? and, by the time they can reflect on 
the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the 
woods." 

" Ah ! you little know them. Captain Wharton," re- 
turned the pedler ; " there is a sergeant at this moment look- 
ing after us, as if he thought all was not right ; the keen- 
eyed fellow watches me like a tiger laying in wait for his 
leap ; when I stood on the horse block, he half suspected 
something was wrong; nay, check your beast; we must 
let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on 
the pommel of his saddle ; if he mounts now, we are 
gone. The foot soldiers could reach us with their mus- 
kets." 

" What does he do ?" asked Henry, reining his horse Ic 
a walk, but, at the same time, presshig his heels into the 
animal's sides, to be in readiness for a sprmg. 

" He turns fiom his charger, and looks the other way. 
Now trot on gently; not so fast, not so fast; observe th« 



COMMON-PLACE BOOB. OF PROSE. 101 

sencinel in the fjeld a little ahead of us; he eyes us 
keenly." 

" Never mind the footman," said Hecry impatiently; 
" he can do nothing but shoot us ; whereas these dragoons 
raay make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are 
horsemen moving do^vn the road behind us. Do you see 
nothing particular ?" 

" Huinph !" ejacuiated the nedler ; " there is something 
particular, i-ndeed, to be seen behind the thicket on your left; 
turn your head a little, and you may see and profit by it too." . 

Henry eagerly seized his permisson to look aside, and 
his blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were 
passing a gallows, that had unquestionably been erected 
for his own execution. He turned his face from the sight 
in undisguised horror. 

" There is a warning to be prudent in that bit of wood," 
said the pedler, in that sententious manner that he often 
adopted. 

" It is a terrific sight indeed !" cried Henry, for a mo- 
ment veiling his face with his hands, as if to drive a vision 
from before him. 

The pedler moved his body partly around, and spoke with 
energetic but gloomy bitterness — "and yet. Captain Whar- 
ton, you see it when the setting sun shines full upon you ; the 
air you breathe is cierir, and fresh from the hills before you. 
Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind ; 
and every dark IigSIoWj and every shapeless rock in the 
mountains, ofTers you a hiding-place from the vengeance 
of your enemies. Eut t have seen the gibbet raised, when 
no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in 
dungeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights 
in torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn that was 
to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started 
from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture, and 
if I ventured to the hole, that admitted air through grates of 
.fon, to look cut upon the smiles of nature, which God has 
bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the gibbet has 
glared before my eyes, like an evil conscience, harrowing 
ths soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their 
power, besides this last ; but — twice — twice did I think 
tliat my hour had com.e. It is hard to die at the best, 
9* 



102 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Captain Wharton ; but to spend your last moments doi^ 
and iinpiliedjto know that none near you so much as thinX 
of the tatethat is to you tlie closing of all that is earthly 
to think that in a few hours you are to be led from the 
gloom — which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes deal 
to you — to the face of day, and there to meet all eyej 
upon you, as if you were a wild beast ; and to lose sight of 
every thing amidst the jeers and scoifs of your fellow crea« 
tures ; — that. Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die." 

Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered 
this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him , 
both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their dis- 
guises, as he cried — 

" What! were you ever so near death as that?" 

" Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for 
three years past ?" resumed Harvey ; *' and once they even 
led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only 
by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quar- 
ter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed, 
in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and 
children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray 
to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes ; 
and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a sin- 
gle face that showed me any pity, I could find none — no, 
not even one — all cursed me as a wretch who would sell 
his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes 
than common — but then it was the last time I should see 
it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and every thing seem- 
ed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh ! how sweet 
life was to me at that moment ! 'Twas a dreadful hour. 
Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You 
have friends to feel for you ; but 1 had none but a father 
to mourn my loss when he might hear of it ; there was no 
pity, no consolation near to soothe my anguish. Every 
thing seemed to have deserted me, — I even thought tha' 
He had forgotten that I lived." 

*•' What ! did you feel that God had forsaken you, Har- 
vey ?" cried the youth, with strong sympathy 

" God never forsakes his servants," returned Birch, with 
everence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto 
he had only assumed. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE* 103 

" And who did you mean by He ?" 

The pedler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff ana 
upright posture that was suited to the outward appearance. 
The look of fire, that, for a short time, glowed upon hi3 
countenance, disappeared in the solemn lines of unbend- 
ing self-abasement, and, speaking as if addressing a negro, 
he replied — 

" In heaven, there is no distinction of colour, my broth- 
er ; therefore you have a precious charge within you, that 
you must hereafter render an account of," — dropping his 
voice ; " this is the last sentinel near the road ; look not . 
back, as you value your life." 

Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed 
the humble demeanour of his adopted character. The un- 
accountable energy of the pedler's manner was soon for- 
gotten in the sense of his own immediate danger ; and with 
tlse recollection of his critical situation returned all the 
uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten. 

" What see you, Harvey ?" he cried, observing the ped- 
ler to gaze towards the building they had left, with omi- 
nous interest ; " what see you at the house ?" 

"That which bodes no good to us," returned the pre- 
\ luled priest. " Throw aside the mask and wig — you 
\ ill need all your senses without much delay — throw 
I lem in the road : there are none before us that I dread, but 
tiiere are those behind us, who will give us a fearful 
race." 

" Nay, then," cried the captain, casting the implements 
of his disguise into the highway, " let us improve our time 
to the utmost ; we want a full quarter to the turn ; why 
not push for it at once ?" 

"Be cool — they are in alarm, but they will not mount 
without an officer, unless they see us fly — now he comes — 
he moves to the stables — trot brisklj;^ — a dozen are in theii 
saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths — they hope 
to steal a march upon us — he is mounted— now ride. Cap- 
tain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you 
quit me you Will be lost." 

A second request was unnecessary. The instant that 
Harvey rat his horse to his speed. Captain Wharton was al 
his heels, urging the miserable animal that he rode to tlip 



104 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

atmost. Birch had selected the beast on which he rode 
and, although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded 
chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the 
little pony that had been thought good enough to carry Cassar 
Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the 
captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fear- 
ful glance that he threw behind informed the fugitive that 
his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that 
abandonment that makes misery doublj' grievous, when it 
is to be supported alone, Henry called aloud to the pedler 
not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffer- 
ed his companion to run along-side of his own horse. The 
cocked hat and wig of the pedler fell from his head the 
moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this de- 
velopement of their disguise, as it might be termed, was 
witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observa- 
tion by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the 
very ears of the fugitives — so loud was the cry, and so 
short the distance between them. 

" Had we not better leave our horses," said Henry, "and 
make for the hills across the fields on our left ? — the fence 
will stop onr pursuers." 

"That way lies the gallows," returned the pedler — 
" these fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind 
them fences no more than we do these ruts ; but it is a short 
quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the 
wood. They may stand to choose until they can take 
the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there." 

" But this miserable horse is blown already," cried Hen- 
ry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same 
time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of 
a heavy riding whip that he carried ; " iie will never stand 
it for half a mile further." 

" A quarter will do — a quarter will do," said the pedler ; 
" a single quarter will save us, if you follow my direc 
tions." 

Somewhat cheered by the cool and conndent manner of 
f)is companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse 
forward. A few moments brought them to the desired 
turn, and, as they doubled round a point of low under-Drusri, 
the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattereJ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 105 

along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better 
raour.tod than the rest of the party, were much nearer to 
then* heels than even the pedler thought could be possible. 

At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the 
dark valley that wound among the mountains, a thick un- 
derwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, when 
tiie heavier growth was felled for the sake of fuel. At 
the^ sight of this cover, Henry again urged the pedler to 
dismount, and to plunge into the woods ; but his request 
was promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned 
met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn; 
and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could 
be seen at a time. The pedler took the one which led to 
the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a par- 
tial opening in the thicket, he darted across the right hand 
path, and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay direct- 
ly before them. This manoeuvre saved them. On reaching 
the fork, the dragoons followed the track, and passed the 
spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, be- 
fore they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud 
cries were heard by Henry and the pedler, as their weari- 
ed and breat?dess animals toiled up the hill, ordering their 
comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The 
captain again proposed to leave their horses, and dash into 
the thicket. 

" Not yet — not yet," said Birch in a low voice ; the road 
falls from the top of this hill as steep as it rises — first let 
us gain the top." While speaking they reached the desir- 
ed summit, and both threw themselves from their horses. 
Henry plunged into the thick underwood, which covered 
the side of the mountain for some distance above them. Har- 
vey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows 
of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path on 
the other side of the eminence, and then followed his ex- 
ample. 

The pedler entered the thicket with a little caution, 
HAd avoided, as much as possible, rustling or breaking the 
brinches in his way. There was but time only to shelter 
h*3 Oirson from view, when a dragoon led up the ascent, 
and, on reaching the height he cried aloud — 



106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOSE. 

" I saw one of their horses turning the hill this mia 
ute." 

" Drive on — spur forward, my lads," shouted Mason 
" give the Englishman quarter, but cut down the pedlcr, 
and make an end of him." 

Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as he lis- 
tened in a great tremour to this cry, which was followed by 
ihe passage of a dozen horsemen, with a vigour and speed 
that showed too plainly how little security their over-tired 
steeds could have afforded them. 

" Now," said the pedler, rising from his cover to recon- 
noitre, and standing for a moment in suspense, " all that we 
2:ain is clear gain ; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us 
be stirring." 

" But will they not follow us, and surround this moun- 
tain ?" said Henry, rising, and imitating the laboured but 
rapid progress of his companion ; " remember they have 
foot as well as horse, and at any rate we shall starve in the 
hills." 

" Fear nothing, Captain Wharton," returned the pedler 
with confidence; "this is not the mountain- that I would 
bo on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among 
these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to fol- 
low. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the 
western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising 
of the moon. Who, think you, will follow lis far, on 
a November night, among these rocks and precipices r" 

'•' But listen !" exclaimed Henry ; " the dragoons are 
shouting to each other — they miss us already." 

" Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them," 
said Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. " Nay, 
they can see us — notice, they are pointing up with their 
fingers. There ! one has fired his pistol, but the distance 
is too great for even a musket to carry upwards." 

" They will pursue us," cried the impatient Henry ; 
" let us be moving." 

" They will not think of such a thing," returned the 
pedler, picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin 
goil where he sat, and very deliberately chewing th&oi, 
leaves and all, to refresl his mouth. " What progre^^ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. lOT 

could Oiey make here, in their boots and spurs, with their long 
swords, or even pistols ? No, no — they may go back and 
turn out tht foot • but the horse pass through these deiileSj 
when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembliug. 
Come, follow me. Captain Wharton ; we have a troublesome 
march before us, but I will bring you where none will 
think of venturing this night." 

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view 
amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain. 



Scenery in the JVoich of the White Mountains. — 

DwiGHT. 

The Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appro- 
priated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length 
between two huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some 
vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my 
own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and 
throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic 
violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earth- 
quakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or vol- 
cano in other countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the 
phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are 
too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have 
been accomplished by these agents. The change appears to 
have been effected when the surface of the earth exten- 
sively subsided; when countries and contmenls assumed a. 
new face ; and a general commotion of the elements pro- 
duced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others 
beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less 
than this will account for the sundering of a long range of 
great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the exist- 
ing evidences of the immense force, by which the rup- 
ture was euTccted. 

The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks stand- 
ing perpendicularly at the distance of twenty-two feet 
from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other 
about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the broolj 
mentioned as the head stream of the Saco ; the other haJ/ 



X08 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

by the read. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a 
mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and part- 
ly thrown down by some great convulsion. 

When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the 
wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The 
scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was 
the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged 
in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by 
a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular mioi- 
ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. 
Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary 
with a moss, which seemed the product of ages, recalling 
to the mind the saxuin vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose 
to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened 
fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta- 
neously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassa- 
ble barrier of mountains. 

About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we 
saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in 
the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about 
eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the 
distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over 
a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so 
little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform 
current; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. 
The sun shown with the clearest splendour, from a station 
in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; 
and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream 
of burnished silver. 

At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en- 
trance, we passed a brook, known in this region by the 
name of the flume ; from the strong resemblance to that 
object exhibited by the channel, which it has worn for a 
considerable length in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per- 
pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we de- 
termined to examine farther; and, alighting from our horses, 
walked up the acclivity perhaps a mrlong. The stream fell 
from a height of two hundred and fortj'- or two hundred and 
fifty feet over three precipices; the second receding a small 
distance from the front of the first, and the third from tha* 
of the second. Down the first and second it fell in a sin- 



COMMON-rLA.CE BOOK OF PROSE. 105 

gl8 current ; and down the tliird in three, which united 
their streams at the bottom in a fine basin, formed by the 
hand of nature in the rocks immediately beneath us. It is 
impossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into more 
diversified or more delightful forms ; or for a cascade to de- 
scend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its beau- 
ty. The cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnish- 
ed a considerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The 
sunbeams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a 
great variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally 
numerou^s and diversified collection of shadows ; both dan- 
cing on the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring 
their course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively 
of its murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent. 
Every thing assumed the character of enchantment; and, had 
I been educated in the Grecian mythology, I should scarce- 
ly have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, 
Naiads and Oreades, sporting c.i the little plain below our 
feet. The purity of this water was discernible, not only by 
its limpid appearance, and its taste, but from several other 
circumstances. Its course is wholly over hard granite ; and 
the rocks and the stones in its bed and at its side, instead of 
being covered with adventitious substances, were washed 
perfectly clean ; and, by their neat appearance, added not a 
little to the beauty of the scenery. 

From this spot the mountains speedily began to open 
with increased majesty ; and, in several instances, rose to 
d perpendicular height little less than a mile. The bosom 
of both ranges was overspread, in all the inferior regions, 
by a mixture of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are 
deciduous. The annual foliage had been already changed 
by the frost. Of the effects of this change it is, perhaps, 
impossible for an inhabitant of Great iPritain, as I have 
been assured by several foreigners, to form an adequate 
conception, without visiting an American forest. When I 
was a j'-outh, I remarked that Thomson had entirely omit- 
ted in his Seasons this fine part of autumnal imagery. 
Upon inquiring of 'a.n English gentleman the probable cause 
of the omission, he informed me that no such scenery 
existed in Great Britain. In this country, it is often among 
the most splendi. beauties of nature All the leaves o\ 
10 



110 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOSS. 

trees, wMcb are not ever^eens. are, by the first severe frcst. 
changed from their verdure towards the perfection of rhat 
colour which they are capable of ultimately assumin^s 
through yellow, orange and red, to a pretty deep brown. 
As the frost affects diiferent trees, and different leaves of the 
same tree, in very different degrees, a vast multitude of 
tinctures are commonly found on those of a single tree, 
and always on those of a grove or forest. These colours 
also, in all their varieties, are generally full ; and, in many 
instances, are among the most exquisite, which are found 
in the regions of nature— Different sorts of trees are sus- 
cepable of different degrees of this beauty. Among them 
the maple is pre-eminently distinguished by the prodigious ' 
varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense lustre of its 
hues ; varying through all the dyes between a rich green 
and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, the red 
of the prismatic image. 

There is, however, a sensible difference in the beauty of 
this appearance of nature in different parts of the country, 
even when the forest trees arc the same. I have seen no 
tract where its splendour was so highly finished, as in the 
region which surrounds Lancaster for a distance of thirty 
mOes. The colours are more varied and more intense ; 
and the numerous evergreens furnish, in their deep hues, 
the best groundwork of the picture. 

I have remarked, that the annual foliage on the semoun- 
tains hail been already changed by the frost. Of course, the 
darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the 
brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry, 
and the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple. 
The effect of this uniTersal diffusion of gay and splendid 
light was, to render the preponderating deep green more 
solemn. The min4, encircled by this scenery, irresistibly 
remembered that the liorht was the light of decay, autum- 
nal and melancholy- The dark was the gloom of evening, 
approximating to nijht. Over the whole, the azure of the 
sky cast a deep, mi«tv blue : blending, towards the summit, 
every other hue, ai rt nredominating over all. 

As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and 
gjaduilly ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of 
oaical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, th« 



vv/MMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ill 

0-c^s, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmos- 
jjnere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. Above, 
ne surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminating, 
at a still higher elevation, in a shroud of dark-coloured 



As we passed onward through this singular valley, occa- 
sional torrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows at 
the close of winter, had left behind them, in many places, 
perpetual monuments of their progress, in perpendicular, 
narrow and irregular paths of immense length, where they 
had washed the precipices naked and white, from the sum- 
mit of the mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasms 
also met the eye, both on the summits and the sides; and 
strongly impressed the imagination with the thought, that 
a hand of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid 
rocks, and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Ovei" 
ail, hoary cliflfs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned aw- 
iully on the world below, and finished the landscape. 

By our side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost, 
and increased, almost at every step, by the junction of 
tributary streams. Its course was a perpetual cascade; 
and with its sprightly murmurs furnished the onlv contrast 
to the scenery around us. 



Exalted Character of Poetry. — Chaining. 

By those who are accustomed to speak of poetry as light 
reading, Milton's eminence in this sphere may be consider- 
cci only as giving him a high rank among the contributors 
tu public amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all 
God's gifts of intellect, he esteemed poetical intellect the 
'i^ost transcendent. He esteemed it in himself as a kind of 
iaspiration, and wrote his great works with the conscious 
uignity of a prophet. We agree with Milton in his esti- 
lOite of poetry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; for 
h is the breathing or expression of that principle or senti- 
ment, which is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we 
mecp., of that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is whol- 
ly a stranger for something purer and loveliei, something 



112 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

inore poiverful, lofty and thrilling, than ordinary and rea 
life affords. — No doctrine is more common among Chris* 
tians than that of man's immortal-' . -[^^^ ^^ jg ^^^ g^ gener- 
ally understood, that the germs or princip]*^' ■>f his whole 
future being are now wrapped up in hii sou', as the rudi- 
ments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary re- 
sult of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by 
these mighty though infant energies, is perpetually stretch- 
ing beyond what is present and visible, struggling against 
the bounds of its earthly prison-house, and seeking relief 
and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view 
of our nature, which has never been fully developed, and 
which goes farther towards explaining the contradictions 
of human life than all others, carries us to the very founda- 
tion and sources of poetry. He, who cannot interpret by 
his own consciousness what we now have said, wants the 
true key to works of Genius. He has not penetrated those 
secret recesses of the soul, where Poetry is born and nour- 
ished, and inhales immortal vigour, and wings herself for 
her heavenward flight. — In an intellectual nature., framed 
for progress and for higher modes of being, there must be 
creative energies, power of original and ever-growing 
thought; and poetry is the form in which these energies 
are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of 
this art, that it " makes all things new" for the gratifica- 
tion of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its elements in 
what it actually sees and experiences in the worlds of mat- 
ter and mind ; but it combines and blends these into new 
forms, and according to new affinities: breaks down, if 
we may so say, the distinctions and bo':ads of nature ; im- 
parts to material objects life, and =entiment, and emotion, 
and invests the mind with the powers and splendours of the 
outward creation; descr:b<iS the surrounding universe in 
the colours which the passions throw over it, and dep.«<'t3 
the mind in thope liiodes of repose or agitation, of tender- 
ness or subllf^^e emotion, which manifest its thirst for a 
more pow.rful and joyful existence. To a man of a liter?! 
and orosaic character, the mind may seem lawless in f^i 
workings ; but it observes higher laws than it transgresses,— 
the laws of the immortal intellect; it is trying and develoyiov; 
rts best faculties; and, in the objects which it describes 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 113 

or the emotions which it awakens, anticipates those states 
ui progressive power, splendour, beauty and happiness, for 
which it was created. 

We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring 
Rociecy, is one of the great instruments of its refinement 
and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives 
it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the con- 
sciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In 
iis legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same ten- 
dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize 
our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument 
of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but when genius thus 
sloops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its power ; 
and even when Poetry is enslaved to licentiousness and 
misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. 
Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of 
innocent happiness, sympathies with what is good in our 
nature, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollowness of 
the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape 
m an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted 
spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. — Poetry 
has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights 
in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature and of the 
soul. It indeed portrays wiin terrible energy the ex- 
cesses of the passions, but they are passions which show a 
mighty nature, which are full of power, which command 
awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its 
great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond 
and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary 
life ; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe int-o it 
more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the 
loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful 
feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps un- 
quenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time 
of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our inter- 
est in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderest 
and loftiest feelings, s-preads our sympathies over all classes 
of society, knits us by new ties with universal being, and, 
ll rough the brightness of its prophetic visions, b^Ips faitb 
to lay hoJd on the future life. 
10* 



114 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it givei 
wrong views, and excites false expectations of life, peoples 
the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina 
tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against 
which poetry wars, — the wisdom of the senses, which 
makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, 
and wealth the chief interest of life, — we do not deny ; nor 
do we deem it the least service which poetry renders to 
jiankind, that it redeems 'hem from the thraldom of this 
earthborn prudence. Buj, passing over this topic, we 
would observe, that the complaint against poetry as abound- 
ing in illusion and deception is, in the main, groundless. 
In many poems there is more of truth than in many liisto- 
ries and philosophic theories. The fictions of genius are 
often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its flashes 
often open new regions of thought, and throw new light on 
the mysteries of our being. In poetry the letter is false- 
hood, but the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And if 
truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much 
more may it be expected in his delineations of life ; for the 
present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind 
abounds in the materials of poetry, and it is the highest 
office of the bard to detect this divine element among the 
grosser pleasures and labours of ojr earthly being. The 
present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and finite. 
To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The affections 
which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ; 
the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm tiif 
soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the innocent and 
irrepressible joy of infancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and 
dazzling hopes of youth ; the throbbings of the heart 
when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too 
vast for earth; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affectioi), 
and her blushes of purity, and the tones ar^d looks which 
only a mother's heart can inspire ; — these are all poetical. 
It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not 
exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's 
ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fra- 
grance? M-ings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 115 

its more refined but evanescent joys; and in this he does 
well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped 
by cares for subsistence and physical gratifications, but 
admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, 
sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This 
power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness, 
is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed 
to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial 
t anners, which make civilization so tame and uninterest- 
ing. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical 
science, which, being now sought, not, as formerly, for in- 
tellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, 
requires a new developement of imagination, taste and 
poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, 
material, epicurean life. . 

Our remarks in vindication of poetry have extended be- 
yond our original design. They have had a higher aim 
than to asseit the dignity of Milton as a poet, and that is, to 
endear anfl recommend this divine art to all who reverence, 
and weald cultivate and refine their nature. 



Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. — North 
American Review.* 

There is an individual, who sits on no throne, in whose 
veins no aristocratic blood runs, who derives no influence 
from amassed or inherited wealth, but who, by the simple 
supremacy of mind, exercises, at this moment, a political 
sway, as mighty as that of Napoleon at the zenith of his 
power. Indebted for his own brilliant position to the lib- 
erality of the age, which is shaking off the fetters of an- 
cient prejudices, this literal ruler by the grace of God can 
feel no deference for most of the maxims, by which the 



* The article, from which this extract is taken, is ascribed to the pen 
of the Hon. Edward Everett. Little did its author imagine, whiie thus 
eloquently apostrophizing the prime minister of England, that he was 
so soon to be withdrawn by the mysterious hand of the Almiglity from 
that wide sphere of power and benevolence, to which ths " liberality 
of the age" had exalted him. — Ed 



116 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

neutrality of England in the wars of Grecian liberty i» 
justified. How devoutly is it to be wished, that the pure 
and undying glory of restoring another civilized region to 
the family of Christendom, could present itself in vision to 
the mind of this fortunate statesman ; that, turning from 
his fond but magnificent boast, that he had called into exist- 
ence a new world in the Indies, he would appropriate to him- 
self the immortal fame, which could not be gainsaid, of hav- 
ir.g recalled to life the fairest region of Europe. He has but 
to speak the word within the narrow walls of St. Stephen's, 
and the sultan tremhles on his throne. He has but to speak 
the word, and all the poor scruples and hypocritical sophis- 
tries of the continental cabinets vanish into air. Let him 
then abandon the paltry chase of a few ragamuffin Portu- 
guese malecontents, and follow a game, which is worthy 
of himself and the people whose organ he is. Let him 
pronounce the sentence of expulsion from Europe of the 
cruel and barbarous despotism, which has so long oppressed 
it. The whole civilized world will applaud and sanction 
the decree ; he will alleviate an amount of human suf- 
fering, he will work out a sum of human good, which the 
revolutions of ages scarcely put it within the reach of men, 
or governments, to avert or effect. He will encircle his 
plebeian temples with a wreath of fame, compared with 
which the diadem of the monarch whom he serves is 
worthless dross. 



At all events, there they are,ii gallant race, struggling, 
single-handed, for independence ; an extraordinary specta- 
cle to the world ! With scarcely a government of their 
own, and without the assistance of any established power, 
they have waged, for six years, a fearfully contested war 
against one of the great empires of the earth. When Mr. 
Canning lately held out the menace of war against those 
continental nations who should violently interfere with the 
English system, he sought to render the menace more 
alarming, by calling it " a war of opinions," in which the dis- 
contented of every other country would rally against their 
own government under the banners of Great Britain. On 
*his menace, which, considering the quarter from whence i^ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 117 

proceeds, comes with somewhat of a revolutionary and dis- 
organizing t'»ne, we have now no comment to make. The 
war i.ow raging in Greece is, in a much higher and hetter 
sense, a war of opinion which has actually begun ,' and ia 
which the unarrayed, the unofficial, and, we Itad almosj 
said, the individual efforts and charities of the friends of 
liberty throughout Christendom are combatting, and thus 
far successfully, the barbarous hosts of the Turk. De- 
serted as they have been by the governments to whom they 
naturally looked for aid ; by Russia, who tamely sees the 
head of the Russian church hung up at the door of his own 
cathedral ; by England, the champion of liberal principles 
in Europe, and the protectress of the Ionian Isles ; by the 
Holy Alliance, that takes no umbrage at the debarkation 
of army after army of swarthy infidels on the shores of a 
Christian country ; — the Greeks have still been cheered 
and sustained by the sympathy of the civilized v/orld. Gal- 
lant volunteers have crowded to their assistance, and some 
of the best blood in Europe has been shed in their defence. 
Liberal contributions of money have been sent to them 
across the globe ; and, while we write these sentences, sup- 
plies are despatched to them from various parts of our owe 
countr)^, sufficient to avert the horrors of famine for 
another season. The direct effect of these contributions, 
great as it is, (and it is this which has enabled the Greeks 
to hold out thus far,) is not its best operation. "We live in 
an age of moral influences. Greece, in these various acts, 
feels herself incorporated into the family of civilized na- 
tions ; raised out of the prison-house of a cruel and besot- 
ted despotism, into the community of enlightened states 
Let an individual fall in with and be assailed by a superior 
force in the lonely desert, on the solitary ocean, or beneath 
the cover of darkness, and his heart sinks within him_. as 
he receives blow after blow, and feels his strength wastifi^^ 
in the unwitnessed and uncheered struggle : but let th« 
sound of human voices swell upon his ear, or a friendly 
sail draw nigh, and life and hope revive within his hosom. 
Nor is human nature different in its operation in the Id,rg<j 
masses of men. Can any one doubt, that, if the Greeks, 
insfjeaJ ol being placed where they are, on a renowned 
vena, in sight of the civilized world, — visited, dded, ap 



118 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

plaude-.l as they have been, from one extreme of Christen 
aoin to iJiiS otiier, — had been surrounded by barbarism, se« 
ciud'^c in the interior of the Turkish empire, without a 
iiid^virj. of communication with the world, they would 
have been swept away in a single campaign ? They would 
have been crushed ; they would have been trampled into 
the dust ; and the Tartars, that returned from the massa- 
rre, would have brought the first tidings of theit btruggle. 
This is our encouragement to persevere in calling the at- 
tention of the public to this subject. It is a warfare in 
which we all are or ought to be enlisted. It i^ a war of 
opinion, and of feeling, and of humanity. It is a great war 
of public sentiment ; not conflicting (as it is commonly 
called to do) merely Avith public sentiment operating in an 
opposite direction, but with a powerful, barbarous, and des- 
potic government. The strength and efficacy of the pub- 
lic sentiment of the civilized world are now, therefore, to 
be put to the test on a large scale, and upon a most mo- 
mentous issue. It is now to be seen whether mankind, 
that is, its civilized portion, — whether enlightened Europe 
and enlightened America will stand by, and behold a civil- 
ized Christian people massacred en masse; whether a 
people that cultivate the arts which we cultivate, — that 
enter into friendly intercourse with us, — that send their 
children to our schools, — that translate and read our histo- 
rians, philosophers and moralists, — that live by the same 
rule of faith, and die in the hope of the same Saviour, shall 
be allowed to be hewn down to the earth in our sight, by a 
savage horde of Ethiopians and Turks. For ourselves, we 
do not believe it. An inward assurance tells us that it 
cannot be. Such an atrocity never has happened in hu- 
D^ian affairs, and will not now be permitted. As the horrid - 
catastrophe draws near, if draw near it must, the Christ' %n 
governments will awaken from their apathy. If govern- 
ments remain enchained by reasons of state, the comnjoo 
feeling of humanity among men will burst out, in some ef- 
fectual interference. And if this fail, why should not 
Providence graciously interpose, to prevent the extinction 
of the only people, in whose churches the New Testament 
U \i3ed IV. the original tongue ? Is it not a pertinent sub- 
ject of inquiry with those, who administer the rehgiou« 



OOMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Il9 

cnarities of this and other Christian countries, whether tha 
entire cause of the diffusion of the Gospel is not more close- 
ly connected with the event of the struggle in Greece, 
than with any thing else, in any part of the world ? la 
not the question whether Greece and her islands shall be 
Christian or Mahometan, a more important question than 
any other, in the decision of which we have the remotest 
agency ? Might not a well-devised and active concert 
among the Christian charitable societies in Europe and 
America, for the sake of rescuing this Christian people, pre- 
sent the most auspicious prospect uf success, and form an 
organization adequate to the i:r.pc>7-tance and sacredness of 
the object ? And can any mau, wh^i has humanity, liber- 
ty, or Christianity at heart, feel justified in forbearing to 
£;ive his voice, his aid, his syinpalhy, to this cause, in any 
way in which it is practicable to advance it. 

Small as are the numbers of the Greeks, and limited as 
is their country, it may be safely said» that there has not, 
since the last Turkish invasion of Europe, been waged a 
vv ar, of which the results, in the worst event, could have 
been so calamitous, as it must be allowed by every reflect- 
ing mind, that the subjugation and consequent extirpation 
of the Greeks would be. The war? that are waged be- 
t\veen the states of Christendom, generally grow out of 
disputed titles of princes, or state quarrels betv/een the 
e;overnments. Serious changes no doubt take place, as 
tliese wars may be decided one waj^ or the other. Nations, 
formerly well governed, may come under an arbitrary 
sway ; or a despotic be exchanged for a milder govern- 
ment. But, inasmuch as victor and vanquished belong to 
the same civilized family; and the social condition, the 
standard of morality, and the received code of public law, 
a:-8 substantially the same in all the nations of Europe ; no 
irreparable disaster to the cause of humanity itself can en- 
sue from any war, in v/hich they may be engaged with 
each other Had Napoleon, for iuslancej .succeeded i'n in- 
vading and conquering Eng!an;!, (and this is probably the 
strongest case that could La put,) after the first calamities 
of invasion and conquest were past, which must in all cases 
be much the same, no worse evils would probably have 
esulted to the cause of Immanity, than the restoration of 



120 coamox-PLACE book of prose. 

ihe Catholic religion as the religioa of the state, th3 Intro- 
Cucrion of the civil law in place of the common law, and 
lae general exclusion of the English nobility and gentry 
from offices of power and profit ; an exclusion, which 
the English government itself, since the year 1633, ha3 
enforced towards the Catholic families, among which are 
some of the oldest and richest in the kingdom. Whereas, 
should the Turks prevail in the present contest, an amal- 
gamation of victor and vanquished would he as impracti- 
cable now, as when Greece was first conquered by the 
Ottoman power. The possession of the country has been 
promised to the Bey of Egypt, as the reward of his services 
In eflfecting its conquest. The men-at-arms have already 
been doomed to mihtary executirn of the most cruel kind, 
and the women and children wou'd be sold into Asiatic and 
African bondage. 

We are not left to collect this tcerely from the known 
maxims of Turkish warfare, nor the menaces which have 
repeatedly been made by the Porte, but we see it exem- 
phfied in the island of Scio. On the soil of Greece, thus 
swept of its present population, will be settled the Egyptian 
and Turkish troops, by whom it shall have been subdued. 
Thus will have been cut off, obliterated from the map of 
Europe, and annihilated by the operation of whatever is 
most barbarous and terrific in the military practice of the 
Turkish government, an entire people ; one of those dis- 
tinct social families, into which Providence collects the sons 
of men. In them will perish the descendants of ancestors, 
toward whom we all profess a reverence ; who carry, in 
the language they speak; the proof of their national iden- 
tity. In them will be exterminated a people apt and pre- 
disposed for all the improvements of civihzed life ; a peo- 
ple connected with the rest of Europe by every moral and 
intellectual association, an-i capable of being reared up into 
a prosperous and cultivated state. Finally ; in them will 
perish one wh.^le Christian people ; and that the first that 
embraced Christianity ; cui:rcbes actually founded by the 
apostles in person, ch'^rcbes, for whose direct instrucuon a 
considerable part of the New Testament was composed, 
after abiding all the storms of eighteen centuries, and sur- 
viving so mauy vicissitudes, are now at length to be 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 121 

razed; and, in the place of all this, an uncivilized Ma- 
hometan horde is to be established upon the ruins. We 
say it is a most momentous alternative. Interest hnmani 
generis. The character of the age is concerned. The 
mpending evil is tremendous. To preserve the faith cf 
certain old treaties, concluded we forget when, the parlia- 
ment of England decides by acclamation to send an army 
inlo Portugal and Spain, because Spain has patronised the 
disaffection of the Portuguese ultra-royalists. To prevent 
a change in the governments of Piedmont, Naples and 
Spain, Austria and France invade those countries with 
large armies. Can those great powers look tamely on, and 
see the ruin of their Christian brethren consummated in 
Greece ? Is there a faded parchment in the diplomatic ar- 
chives of London or Lisbon, that binds the English gov- 
ernment more imperiously than the great original obliga- 
tion to rescue an entire Christian people from the cimeter ? 
Can statesmen, who profess to be, who are, influenced by 
the rules of a chaste and lofty public morality, justify their 
sanguinary wars with Ashantees and Burmans, and find 
reasons of duty for shaking the petty thrones of the interior 
of Africa, and allow an African satrap to strew the plains 
of Attica with bloody ashes ? 

If they can, and if they will, then let the friends of lib- 
erty, humanity, and religion, take up this cause, as one thai 
concerns them, all and each, in his capacity as a Christian 
and a man. Let them make strong the public sentiment 
on this subject, and it will prevail. Let them remember 
what ere now has been done, by the perseverance and res- 
olution of small societies, and even individual men. Let 
them remember how small a company of adventurers, un- 
patronised, scarcely tolerated by their government, suc- 
ceeded in laying the foundations of this our happy coun- 
try beyond a mighty ocean. Let them recollect, that it 
was one fixed impression, cherished and pursued in the 
bea t cf an humble and friendless mariner, through long 
ye-uvs of fruitless solicitation and fainting hope, to which it 
is owing, that these vast American continents are made a 
part of the heritage of civilized man. Let them recollect 
that, in the same generation, one poor monk dismembered 
the great ecclesiastical empire of Europe. Let them bea» 
11 



122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

in mind, that it was a hermit who roused the nations ;:f 
Europe in m^ss, to engage in an expedition against tie 
common enemy of Chistendom ; an expedition, wild indeed, 
and unjustifiable, according to our better lights, but lawful 
and meritorious in those who embarked in it. Let them, 
in a word, never forget, that when, on those lovely islands 
and once happy shores, over which a dark cloud of destruc- 
tion now hangs, the foundations of the Christian church 
were first laid, it was by the hands of private, obscure and 
persecuted individuals. It was the people, the humblest 
of the people, that took up the Gospel, in defiance of all 
the patronage, the power, and the laws of the government. 
Vv'hy should not Christianity be sustained in the same coun- 
try, and by the same means by which it was originally es- 
tablished ? If, as we believe, it is the strong and decided 
sentiment of the civilized world, that the cause of the 
Greeks is a good cause, and that they ought not to be al- 
lowed to perish, it cannot be that this sentiment will re- 
main inoperative. The very existence of this sentiment 
is a tower of strength. It vnW make itself felt by a thou- 
sand manifestations. It will be heard in our senates and 
our pulpits ; it will be echoed from our firesides. Does 
any one doubt the cause of America was mightily strength- 
ened and animated by the voices of the friends of liberty 
in the British parliament ? Were not the speeches of 
Chatham and Burke worth a triumphant battle to our fa- 
tliers ? And can any one doubt that the Grecian patriots 
will hold out, so long as the Christian world will cheer 
them with its sanction ? 

I^et, then, the public mind be disabused of the prejudices 
which mislead it on this question. Let it not be operated 
upon by tales of piracies at sea, and factions on land ; evils, 
which belong not to Greeks, but to human nature. Le< 
the means of propagating authentic intelligence of the pro- 
gress of the revolution be multiplied. Let its well-wishers 
and its well-hopers declare themselves in the cause. Let 
the tide of pious and Christian charity be turned into this 
broad and thirsty channel. Let every arde it and high- 
spirited young man, who has an independent subsistence 
of two or three hundred dollars a year, embark personally 
in the cause, ^^nd aspire to that crown of glory, never yot 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PnOSE. 123 

woici. except by him who so lately triumphed in the hearts 
fif the entire millions of Americans. Let this be done, 
and Greece is safe. 



Death of Josiah Quincy, Jun. — J. Quincy. 

Af'TEK being five weeks at sea, the wished-for shore 
yet at a distance, he became convinced that his fate was 
inevitable, — and prepared to submit himself to the will of 
Heaven with heroic calmness and Christian resignalion 
Under the pressure of disease, and amidst the daily sink- 
ing of nature, his friends, his family, and, above all, his 
country, predominated in his affections. He repeatedly 
said to the seaman on whose attentions he w?.s -chsefiy de- 
pendant, that he had but one desire and one pa^'er, wbich 
was^ that he might live long enough lo hav<i s.a interview 
with Samuel Adams or Joseph Warren ; — i:h;ii p.rhnted, he 
sbould die content. This wish of the patnot^s heartj 
Heaven, in its inscrutable wisdom, did not grant. 

As he drew towards his native s!iore, the crisis he had 
so long foreseen arrived. The battle of Lexington was 
fo'jght. According to his predictions, " his countrymen 
sealed their faith and constancy to their liberties with their 
blood." But he lived not to hear the event of that glori- 
ous day. 

While yet the ship was three days' sail from land, ex- 
hausted by disease, and perceiving his last hour approach, 
he called the seaman to the side of his birth, and, being 
himself too weak to write, dictated to him a letter full of 
the most interesting and affecting communications to his 
family and nearest friends. This latter suil exists 
among his papers, in the rude hand-writiog of arx illiterate 

sailor. 

************** 

Such is the last notice of the close of tlie life of Josiah 
Quincy, Jun. On the 26th of April, 1775, within sigiji of 
that beloved country, which he v*as not perioitted t3 re^.ch* 
neither supported by the kindness of friendship, nor c()eer- 
ed by the voice of aiTection, he expired ; — not, indeed, a^ 



i24 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

i few ^ueks afterwards did his friend and co-patriot War- 
ren, m battle, on a field ever-memorable and glorious ; but 
in solitude, amidst suffering, without associate and without 
witness ; yet breathing forth a dying sigh for his country, 
desiring to live only to perform towards her a last and sig- 
nal service 

A few hours after his death, the ship., with his lifeless 
remains, entered the harbour of Gloucester, Cape Ann. 

His arrival had been anticipated with anxious solicitude, 
and the intelligence of his death was received with an uni- 
versal sorrow. By his family and immediate friends, the 
event was mourned as the extinction of their brightest 
hope. His contemporaries, faithful to hii viroios, and 
deeply sensible of his services, early associviced his name 
with thrse most honoured and most beloved of tlve period 
in which be lived. It was his lot to co'.ripress events and 
exertions yiirocuMd for ;> long life witbin the cci;vpas3 of a 
few short -ye'iry. To live forever in tiie hearts of his coun- 
trymen, nU'':, fiy labour and virtue, to becoEie im^oridl in 
the memory of future, timr:-, were the strong passions of 
his soul. Tint lie was proliibited from filling the great 
sj.here of usefulness, for v/hich his intellectuai powers 
seemed ahiptel and destined, is less a subject of regret, 
then it is of joy zxil gratitude that he was permitted, in so 
short a t'.jrie, to perform so noble a part, and that to his 
des!r3 has been granted so large a portion of that imperish- 
able i^so.ed, -vvhich, beyond all earthly reward, was the ob- 
ject of Itii Sbjrch and solxcitude. 



Vanzcr of Delay i-i Religion. — BtJCs:MixsTEB 

It has beet\ most acutely and justly observed, that all 
resolutions to rr-pent at a future time are necessarily in 
rincere, and must'bc a mere deception; because they im 
}dy a preference of a man''s present habits and conduct , 
they imply, that he is really unwilling to change them, 
and that nothing but necessity would lead him to make any 
attempt of the kind. But let us suppose the expected lei- 
sure for repentance to have arrived ; the avaricious or 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 125 

fraudulent dealer to have attained that competency, which 
is to secure him from want ; the profligate and debauched 
to have passed the slippery season of youth, and to be es- 
tablished in life ; the gamester, by one successful throw, to 
have recovered his desperate finances ; the dissipated and 
luxurious to have secured a peaceful retreat for the re« 
mainder of his days ;-^to each of these the long anticipated 
hour of amendment, the opportune leisure for religion, has 
at length arrived ; but where, alas ! is the disposition ! where 
the necessary strength of resolution ! How rare, and, I 
had almost said, how miraculous, is the instance of a 
change ! 

The danger of delay, even if we suppose this uncertaip 
leisure and inclination to be secured, is inconceivablj 
heightened, when we consider, further, the nature of re- 
pentance. It is a settled change of the disposition from 
vice to virtue, discovered in the gradual improv(^ment ol 
the life. It is not a fleeting wish, a vapoury sigh, ? length- 
ened groan. Neither is it a twinge of remorse, i. flutter 
of fear, nor any temporary and partial resolution. The 
habits of a sinner have teen long in forming. They have 
acquired a strength, which is not to be broken by a blow 
The labour of a day will not build up a virtuous habit on 
the ruins of an old and vicious character. You, then, who 
have deferred, from year lo year, the relinquishment of a 
vice ; you, if such there be, who, while the wrinkles are 
gathering in your foreheads, are still dissatisfied with your- 
selves, remember, that amendment is a slow and laborious 
process. Can you be too assiduous, too fearful, when you 
consider how short the opportunity, and how much is re- 
quired to complete the work of reformation, and to estab- 
lish the dominion of virtue ? 

It is impossible to dismiss this subject without consider- 
ing a common topic, — the inefficacy of a death-bed repent- 
ance It is to be fer.red that charity, which hopeth and 
oelieveth all things, has sometimes discovered more of 
generous credulity, than of well-founded hope, when it 
has laid great stress, and built much consolation, on the 
casual expressions and faint sighs of dying men. Far be it 
from us to excite suspicion or recall anxiety in the breast of 
fiurvivinir friendship, or to throw a new shade of terrof 
11 * 



1'2S COMMON-PLACE BUt>K OF UiOSE. 

over the valley of death ; but better, far better, were it 
for a thousand breasts to be pierced with temporary anguish, 
and a new ho ror be added to the dreary passage of the 
grave, than that one soul be lost to heaven by the delusive 
expectation of eflFectual repentance in a dying hour. For, 
as we have repeatedly asked, what is effectual repentance ? 
Can it be supposed, that, where the vigour of life has been 
spent in the estabUshmeut of vicious propensities ; wiiere 
all the vivacity of youth, all the soberness of manhood, and 
all the leisure of old age, have been given to the service 
of sin ; where vice has been growing with the growth, and 
strengthening with the strength ; where it has spread out 
with the limbs of the stripling, and become rigid with the 
fibres of the aged ; can it, I say, be supposed, that the la- 
bours of such a life are to be overthrown by one last exer- 
tion of a mind impaired with disease, by the convulsive 
exercise of an affrighted spirit, and by the inarticulate and 
feeble sounds of an expiring breath ? Repentance con>i--ts 
not in one or more acts of contrition; it is a permanerit 
change of the disposition. Those dispositions and habits 
of mind, which you bring to your dying bed, you will 
carry with you to another world. These habits are tlie 
dying dress of the soul. They are the grave-clothes, 
in which it must come forth, at the last, to meet the sen- 
tence of an impartial Judge. If they were filthy, they 
will be filthy still. The washing of baptismal water will 
not, at that hour, cleanse the spots of the soul. The con- 
fession of sins, w^hich have never been removed, will not 
furnish the conscience with an answer towards God. The 
reception of the elements will not, then, infuse a principle 
of spiritual life, any more than unconsecrated bread and 
Trine will infuse health into the limbs, on which the cold 
ffamps of death have already collected. Say not, that you 
have discarded such superstitious expectations. You hav€ 
not discarded them, while you defer any thing to that hour : 
while you venture to rely on any thing but the mercy of 
God toward a heart, holy, sincere, and sanctified ; a heart, 
which loves heaven for its purity, and God for his goodness. 
If, in this solemn hour, the soul of an habitual and invet- 
erate offender be prepared for the residence of pure and 
spotless spirits, it can be only by a sovereign and miracu 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 127 

Ioii> interposition of Omnipotence. His power we pretend 
not to liTijit. He can wasli tlie sooty Ethiop white, and 
cause the spots on the leopard's skin to disappear. We 
j/'csuiiie not to fathom the counsels of his will ; but this we 
Kill venture to assert, that if, at the last hour of the sin- 
Vi:r*s tlfe, the pov/^er of God ever interposes to snj.tch him 
fr'ccj hi.-i ruin, such interposition will never be disclosed to 
t'l'^ curiosity of man. For, if it should once be believed, 
t-iot the rewards of heaven can be obtained by such an in- 
staritrtiieovis and miraculous change at the last hour of life, 
»U our ideas of moral probation, and of the connexion be- 
tween character here, and condition hereafter, are loose 
Mrs-tible, and groundless ; the nature and the laws of God's 
u^oral government are made at once inexplicable ; our ex- 
b^rtauous are useless, our experience false, and the whole 
uiP-iratus of Gospel means and motives becomes a cumbrous 
ai.d unnecessary provision. 

What, then, is the great conclusion, which we should 
d'-ziiice from all that we have said of the nature of habit, 
u. d the difficulty of repentance ? It is this : Behold, now 
l'-^ ihe accepted time, now is the day of salvation. If you 
Iff j'oung, you cannot begin too soon ; if you are old, you 
i.iay begin too late. Age, says the proverb, strips us of 
ovvry thing, even of resolution. To-morrow we shall be 
o -Jer ; to-morrow, indeed. Death may fix his seal forever 
o:a our characters. It is a seal which can never be broken, 
till the voice of the Son of man shall burst the tombs. 
which enclose us. If, then, we leave this place, sensible 
of a propensity which ought to be restrained, of a lust 
which ought to be exterminated, of a habit which ought 
to be broken, and rashly defer the hour of amendment, 
consider, I beseech you, it may, perhaps, be merciful in 
God to r<»fiise us another opportunity. It may be a gra- 
cious meihod of preventing an abuse, which will only ag- 
K'^AViie thfc retribution, which awaits the impenitent. Make 
hirLe, 'ihea, and delay not to keep the commandments of 
Gac'; ; ef tinC God, who has no pleasure in the death of the 
tvickedj but that the v<ricked turn from his way, and live 



128 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 



Scenes in Philadelphia during the PrevalcTice of tht 
Yellow Fever, in 1793.— C. B. Biiow^-. 

My thoughts were called away from pursuing tliese itn 
quirics by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to ibriiii- 
dable dimensions ; and which, at length, reached us in on? 
quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was iuvclved ia 
confusion and panic ; for a pestilential disease had t'O^ua i!>' 
destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flyii::-; 
to the country. The numbers of the sick muhiplied be\ und 
all example ; even in the pest-affected cities of the J^ev.mt. 
The malady was malignant and unsparing. 

The usual occupations and amusements of life were at ^n 
end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of uaiuio. 
Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by paren*«. 
,Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred 
themselves from all communication with the rest of mav- 
kind. The consternation of others had destioyed their un- 
derstanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the 
midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to 
shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets ; pas 
sengers fled from them ; entrance into their own dwelling'^ 
was denied to them ; they perished in the public ways. 

The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left 
to die of negligence. None could be found to remove tiie 
lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piece- 
meal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added ten- 
fold to the devastation. 

Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand 
ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At 
first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Me- 
thought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The 
enormity and variety of such an evil made it uT.wcrthy to 
be believed. I expected that every new day would detect 
the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every 
new day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and 
the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it ^as not possi- 
ble to withhold my faith. 

This rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the 
whole soul. A certain subhmity is connected with enormotiP 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PR )SE. 12D 

dangers, that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tinc- 
'ture of the pleasing. This, at least, may be experienced 
by those who are /'leyond the verge of peril. My own per- 
son was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure to conjure 
up terrilic images, and to personate the witnesses and suf- 
ferers of this calamity. This employment was not enjoin- 
ed upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and 
must therefore have been recommended by some nameless 
chirm. 

Others were very differently affected. As often as the 
tale was embellished with new incidents, or enforced by 
ne»v testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled 
by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was 
bereaved of its usual energies. A temporary indisposition 
was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melan- 
choly bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence 
of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, 
and for which no opiates could be f jand, were attacked by 
lingering or mortal diseases. 



In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of it*- 
calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farrn- 
house was filled with supernumerary tenants ; fugitives fron 
home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detai- 
every passenger with inquiries after news. The passen 
gers were numerous ; for the tide of emigration was by n^ 
means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in thci* 
countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and f.il'.d 
with mournful reflections on the forlornnesi of their state. 
Few had secured to themselves an asyUua; some were 
without the means of paying for victuals or lod^^ing for the 
coming night ; others, who were not thnn fle&titute, yet 
knew not whither to apply for entertainroeof. every house 
being already overstocked with inhabitar-U. or barring its 
inhospitable doors at their approach. 

Families of weeping mothers, and «ii'*wayed children, 
attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were 
carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband 
had perished ; ard the price of s^me mo»eable, or the pit- 
tance handed forth by public charity, had been expended 



130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

to pui chase the Eieans of retiring from this theatre of disas- 
ters ; t}iough uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in 
the neig?ibouring districts. 

Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led 
to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was 
sutTered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow 
was repeated with ne ^ r\ggravations. Pictures of their own 
distress, or of that of tneir neighbours, were exhibited in all 
the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and 
poverty. 

My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have 
fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was 
rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than I had 
previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A 
panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions 
were necessary to subdue or control ; but I harboured not a 
momentary doubt that the course which 1 had taken was 
prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance 
in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demanded 
was, to walk in this path without tumult or alarm. 

Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out 
upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent 
pauses, to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed 
likewise to procrastination. The sun bad nearly set be- 
fore I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the 
track which I had formerly taken, and entered High Street 
after night-fall. Instead of equipages and a throng of pas- 
sengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had for- 
merly observed, and which the mildness of the season 
would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but 
a dreary solitude. 

The market-place, and each side of this magnificent ave- 
nue were illuminated, as before, by lamps •, but between 
the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not 
more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrap- 
ped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glancea 
pf wcader and suspicion ; and, as I approached, changed their 
c^T.\r^M^ t'.» avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprin- 
kled wli a vinegar ; and their nostrils defended from conta 
gion by §cme powerful perfume. 



COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PROSE. 131 

I cast a look upon the houses, wliich I recollected to havo 
formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding 
with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now, they 
were closed, above and beiow ; dark, and without tokens of 
being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam 
sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and 
showed that their tenants had not fled, but Were secluded 
or disabled. 

These tokens were new% and awakened all my panics. 
Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that 
the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. 1 
had scarcely overcome these tremours, when I approach- 
ed a house, the door of wkich was opened, and before 
which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be 
a hearse. 

The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his 
visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. 
Presently a coSin, borne by two men, issued from the house. 
The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. 
Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to 
danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the 
coff.n into the cavity provided for it, said, " I'll be damned 
if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It was'nt the fever 
that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on 
the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What 
carried them there ?" 

The other surlily muttered, " Their legs, to be sure." 

" But what should they hug together in one room for ?" 

" To save us trouble, to be sure." 

*' And I thank them with all my heart ; but damn it, it 
was'nt right to put him in his coffin before the breath was 
fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me 
to stay a few minutes " 

*' Pshaw : He could not live. The sooner dead the better 
for ':y.m, as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us, 
when we carried away his wife and daughter ? I never cried 
in my life, sirce I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt 
in better tune for the business than just then. Hey !" con- 
tinued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few 
paces distant, and listening to their discourse, " What's 
r^uited '' Any body dead ?" 



132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward 
My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead 
I was ashamed of my own infirmity ; and, by vig;orous ef 
forts of my reason, regained some degree of composure 
The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to pru 
cure accommodation at some of the inns. 

These were easily distinguished by their signs, but man^ 
were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the 
hall of which was open, and the windows lifted. After 
^inocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many 
marks of distress. In answer to my question, she answered 
that both her parents were sick, and that they could re- 
ceive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at 
which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of 
none such; and left me, on some one's calling to her from 
above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a mo- 
ment's pause, I returned, discomforted and perplexed, to 
the street. 

I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At 
length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, which 
the sign-post showed me to be an mn. I knocked loudly 
and often at the door. At length a female opened the 
window of the second story, and in a tone of peevishness 
demanded what T wanted. I told her that I wanted 
lodging. 

" Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she ; " you'll find 
nnr.= here." I began to expostulate ; but she shut the 
windov/ with quickness, and left me to my own reflec- 
tions. 

I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had 
taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I 
equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the 
habitations of men ; but I was destitute of associate or 
friend. I had money, but a horse shelter, or a morstl of 
food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of 
relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself 
Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn ; 
but what would become of me, should this fatal malady 
be contracted ? To hope that an asylum would be afford- 
ed to a sick man, which was denied to one ir health, wa* 
unreasonable 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PR3SE. 133 



Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic. — 
G. B. Emerson. 

Let us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- 
vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements 
of knowledge, wnc understands nothing of the principles 
even of his own art, and inquire what change will be 
wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in al! 
that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of 
Knowledge. He has now the capacity of thought, but it 
is a barren faculty, never nourished by the food of the 
mind, and never rising above the poor objects of sense. 
Labour and rest, the hope of mere animal enjoyment, 
or the fear of want, the care of providing covering and 
food, make up the whole sum of his existence. Such 
a man may be industrious, but he cannot love labour, for 
it is not relieved by the excitement of improving or chang- 
ing the processes of his art, nor cheered by the hope of a 
better condition. When released from labour, he does not 
rejoice, for mere idleness is not enjoyment ; and he has no 
book, no lesson of science, no play of the mind, no interest- 
ing pursuit, to give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home 
has few charms for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, 
the social converse, and exchange of feeling and thought, 
the innocent enjoyments that ought to dwell there. Soci- 
ety has little to interest him, for he has no sympathy for 
the pleasures or pursuits, the cares or troubles of others, 
to whom he cannot feel nor perceive his bonds of relation- 
ship. All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and 
happy for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold 
him to this negative existence be not broken. Happy for 
him if that best and surest friend of man, that messenger 
of good news from Heaven to the poorest wretch on earth, 
J^eligion, brmging the fear of God, appear to save him. 
Without her to support, should temptation assail him, what 
an eas} victim would he fall to vice or crime ! How little 
would le necessary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, 
and throw him grovelling in intemperance, or send hira 
abroad on the ocean or the highway, an enemy to himself 
and his kind ! 
12 



134 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSfc. 

But let the light of science fall upon that man ; open t*' 
him the fountain of knowledge ; a few principles of phi- 
losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of 
thought ; he he-gins to look upon his art with an altered 
eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he 
cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry, 
and begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mas 
tery over his own instruments. He finds other and bettei 
modes of doing what he had done before, blindly and with- 
out interest, a thousand times. He learns to profit by the 
experience of others, and ventures upon untried paths 
Difficulties, which before would have stopped him at the 
outset, receive a ready solution from some luminous princi- 
ple of science. He gains new knowledge and new skill, 
and can improve the quality of his manufacture, while he 
shortens the process, and diminishes his own labour. Then 
labour becomes sweet to him ; it is accompanied by the 
consciousness of increasing power ; it is leading him for- 
ward to a higher place among his fellow men. Relaxa- 
tion, too, is sweet to him, as it enables him to add to 
his intellectual stores, and to mature, by undisturbed 
meditation, the plans and conceptions of the hour of labour. 
His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a 
man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu- 
sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the hon- 
est complacency which is the companion of well-earned 
success. There, too, bright visions of the future sphere 
open upon him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those 
who are to share in his prosperity. Thus his mind and 
heart expand together. He has become an intelligent be- 
ing, and, while he has learnt to esteem himself, he has also 
learnt to live no longer for himself alone. Society open? 
like a new world to him , he looks upon his fellow-crea- 
tures with interest and sympathy, and feels that he has a 
place in their affections and respect. Temptations assail 
hira in vain. He is armed by high and pure thoughts. 
He takes a wider view of his relations with the beingg 
about and above him. He welcomes every generous vir- 
tue that adorns and dignifies the human character. He 
delights in the exercise of reason — he glories in the cod 
Bciousness and the hope ol mmortality. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP «'HOSF.» I'^Q 



Humorous Description of the Cvstom of V/V\tewash 
ing. — Francis Hopjcii^son.* 

My wish is to give you some accoiiat of the people of 
these new States, but I am far from being qualified for liis 
purpose, having as yet seen little more than the citie? of 
New York and Philadelphia. I have discovered but few 
national singularities among them. Their cusioms and 
manners are nearly the same with those of England, vvliich 
they have long been used to copy. For, previous t) the 
revolution, the Americans were from their infancy taught 
to look up to the English as patterns of perfection in all 
things. I have observed, however, one csutom, which, 
for aught I know, is peculiar to this country : an account 
of it will serve to fill up the remainder of this sheet, and 
may afford you some amusement. 

When a young couple are about to enter into the matri- 
monial state, a never-failing article in the marriage treaty 
is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmo- 
lested exercise of the rights of whitewashing, with all its 
ceremonials, privileges and appurtenances. A young wo- 
man would forego the most advantageous connexion, and 
even disappoint the warmest wish of her heart, rather than 
resign the invaluable right. You would wonder what this 
privilege of whitewashing is : — 1 will endeavour to give 
you some idea of the ceremony, as 1 have seen it per- 
formed. 

There is no season of the year, in which the lady may 
not claim her privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end 
of May is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The 
attentive husband may judge by certain prognostics when the 
storm is nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, 
finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the chil- 
dren, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing 
about her —these are signs which ought not to be neglect- 
ed ; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on 
and go off again without producing any further effect. But 

* This piece hns been incorrectly ascribed to the pen of Dr. Franklin. 
Hopkinson possessed much of that ease and humour, which have reu- 
fiered the wntnigs of the brmer so universally admired. — Ed 



136 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should ob. 
serve in tlie j^ard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime 
in It, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in 
water, there is then no time to be lost ; he immediately 
locks up the apartment or closet where his papers or his 
private property are kept, and, putting the key in his pocket, 
betakes himself to flight : for a husband, however beloved, 
becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female 
rage ; his authority is superseded, his commission is sus- 
pended, and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in 
Uie kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance 
than him. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and run 
from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify. 

The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls 
are in a few minutes stripped of their furniture ; paintings, 
prints and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the 
floors ; the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds 
crammed into the windows ; chairs and tables, bedsteads 
and cradles crowd the yard ; and the garden fence bends 
beneath the v/eight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old 
coats and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber 
of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass ; for the 
foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty 
shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured 
remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has dis- 
gorged its bowels, cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses, 
phials of foi gotten physic, papers of unknown powders, 
seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots 
and stoppers of departed decanters ; — from the rag hole in 
the garret to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes un- 
rummaged. It would seem as if the day of general doom 
was come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth 
10 judgment. In this tempest the words of Lear naturally 
present themselves, and might, with some alteration, be 
made strictly applicable : 



-" Let the ereat gods, 



I'hat keep this dreadful pudder o'er cur heads, 

Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, 

That liast within thee undivulged crimes 

UnH'hipp'd of Justice ! 

• Close pent-iip Guilt, 

Raise j-our concealing continents, and ask 
'^'hesH dreadful summoners Erace !" 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 137 

This ceremony completed, and the house ihoroiiglily 
evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceil- 
ings of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solu- 
tion of lime, called whitewash ; to pour buckets of water 
over every floor, and scratch all tlie partitions and wain- 
scots with rough brushes wel with soap-suds, and dipped 
in stone-cuttei's sand. The windows by no means escape 
the general deluge. A servint scrambles out upon the pent- 
house, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand 
and a bucket within reach, she dashes away innumerable 
gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great an- 
noyance of passengers in the street. 

1 have been told, that an action at law was once brought 
against one of tbese water-nymphs, by a person who had 
a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation ; but, after a 
long argument, it was determined by the whole court, that 
the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendant was in 
the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the 
consequences ; and so the poor gentleman was doubly non- 
suited ; for he lost not only his suit of clothes but his suit 
at law. 

These smearings and scratchings, washings and dashings, 
being duly performed, the next ceremony is to cleanse and 
replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a 
house-raising, or a ship-launch, when all the hands within 
reach are collected together ; recollect, if you can, the 
hurry, bustle, cenfusion and noise of such a scene, and you 
will have some idea of this cleaning match. The misfor- 
tune is, that the sole object is to make things clean ; it mat- 
ters not how many useful, ornamental or valuable articles 
are mutilated, or suffer death under the operation ; a ma- 
hogany chair and carved frame undergo the same discipline ; 
they are to be made clean at all events ; but their preserva- 
tion is not worthy of attention. For instance, a fine large 
engraving is laid flat upon the floor ; smaller prints are piled 
u| on it, and the superincumbent weight cracks the glasses 
of the -ower tier ; but this is of no consequence. A 
valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp cor- 
ner of a table ; others are made to lean against that, 
until the pressure of the M'bolc forces the corner of the 
table through the canvass tf the first. The frame and 
12* 



13H COMiVlON-FLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 

glass of a ixne print are to be cleaned ; the spirit and oil 
;:SPd ori ibi= occasion are suffered to leak through and spoil 
the engraving ; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the 
frame shine, it is sufficient ; the rest is not worthy of con- 
sideration. An able mathematician has made an accurate 
calculation founded on long experience, and has discovered 
that the losses and destnction incident to two whitewash- 
ings ore equal to one remr val, and three removals equal to 
one firt. 

The cleaning frolic over, matters begin to resume their 
pristine appearance. The storm abates, and all would be 
well again, but it is impossible that so great a convulision, 
in so small a community, should not produce some further 
effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the 
family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes, 
occasioned by the caustic quanty of the lime, or with 
severe colds from the exhalations of wet floors or damp 
walls, 

I know a gentleman, who was fond of accounting for 
every thing in a philosophical way. He considers this, 
which I have called a custom, as a real periodical disease 
peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is ingenious 
and whimsical, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. 
The result was, that he found the distemper to be incura- 
ble ; but, after much study, he conceived he had discovered 
a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this 
purpose he caused a small building, about twelve feet 
square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with 
some ordinary chairs and tables ; and a few prints of the 
cheapest sort were hung against the walls. His hope was, 
that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of 
his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub 
and smear and scour to their hearts' content ; and so spend 
the violence of the disease in this outpost, while he enjoy- 
ed himself in quiet at headquarters. But the experimen! 
did not answer his expectation; it was impossible it should, 
since a principal part of the gratification consists in the la- 
dy's having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband 
at least once a year, and to turn him out of doors and take 
the reins of governrntnt intt her own hands. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I"XCv?E. 139 

There is a much better contrivance than this of she 
philosopher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with 
paper : this is generally done ; and, though it cannot abolish, 
it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The 
paper is decorated with flowers of various fancies, and made 
so ornamental, that the women have admitted the fashion 
without perceiving the design. 

Thei-e is also another alleviation of the husband's dis- 
tress ; he generally has the privilege of a small room or 
closet for his books ejid papers, the key of which he is al- 
lowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place, 
and stands like the land of Goshen amid the plagues of 
Egypt. But then he must be extremely cautiou.., and ever 
on his guard ; for should he inadvertently go abroad and 
leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always 
on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters 
in triumph with buckets, brooms and brushes ; takes pos- 
session of the premises, and forthwith puts all his books and 
papers to rights — io his utter confusion, and sometimes 
serious detriment. For instance : 

A gentleman was sued by the executors of a tradesman, 
in a charge found against him in the deceased's books, to 
t!ie amount of thirty pounds. The defendant was strongly 
impressed with the idea, that he had discharged the debt 
and taken a receipt ; but, as the transaction was of long 
standing, he knew not where to find the receipt. The suit 
went on in course, and the time approached when judgment 
would be obtained against him. He then sat seriously 
down to examine a large bundle of old papers, which he 
had untied and displayed on a table for that purpose. In 
the midst of his search, he was suddenly called away on 
fcv.smess of importance ; — he forgot to lock the door of his 
room. The housemaid, who had been long looking out for 
such an opportunity, immediately entered with the usual 
implements, and with great alacrity fell to cleaning the 
room, and putting things to rights. The first object that 
struck her eye was the confused situation of the papers on 
the table ; these were without delay bundled together as 
so many dirty knives and forks ; but in the action, a small 
piece of paper fell unnoticed on the floor, which happened 
to be the verj receipt in question : as it had no very re- 



14.0 C:VvHCN-PLACE BOOK OF PRO SJ! 

Bp C'rLl'i upjitarance, it was soon after swept cut with tlit 
common dirt of the room, and carried in the rubbish-pap 
into the yard. The tradesman had neglected to enter the 
credit in his book ; the defendant could find nothing to ob- 
viate the charge, and so judgment went against him for the 
debt and costs. A fortnight after the whole was settled 
and the money paid, one of the children found the receipt 
among the rubbish in the yard. 

T'here is another custom, peculiar to the city of Phila- 
deiphia, and nearly allied to the former. I mean, that of 
washing the pavement before the doers every Saturday 
evening. I at first took this to be a regulation of the police ; 
but, on further inquii-y, find it is a religious rite prepara- 
tory to the Sabbath ; and is, I believe, the only religious 
rite, in which the numerous sectaries of this city perfectly 
agree. The ceremony begins about sunset, and continues till 
about ten or eleven at night. It is very difficult for a stran- 
ger to walk the streets on those evenings ; he runs a con 
tinual risk of having a bucket of dirty water thrown against 
liis legs ; but a Philadelphian born is so much accustomed 
to the danger, that he avoids it with surprising dexterity. 
It is from this circumstance that a Philadelphian may be 
known any where by his gait. The streets of New York 
are paved with rough stones ; these indeed are not washed, 
but the dirt is so thoroughly swept from before the doors, 
that the stones stand up sharp and prominont, to the great 
inconvenience of those who are not accustomed to so rough 
a path. But habit reconciles every thing. It is diverting 
enough to see a Philadelphian at New York , he walks 
the streets with as much painful caution as if his toes were 
covered with corns, or his feet lamed with the gout ; while 
a New Yorker, as little approving the plain masonry of 
Philadelphia, shuffles along the pavement like a parrot on 
a mahogany table. 

It must be acknowlev^ged, that the ablutions I have men- 
tioned are attended with no small inconvenience ; but the 
women would not be induced, on any consideration, to resign 
their privilege. Notwithstanding this, I can give you the 
strongest assurances that the women of America make the 
most faithful %vives and the most attentive mothers in the 
i^orld ; and I am sure yau will join me in opinion tha/ 



COMMON-PLACE LOOK OF PROSE. 141 

if a married man is made miserable only one week in a 
whole year, he will have no great cause to complain of the 
matrimonial bond. 



May you die a7nong your Kindred. — Greexwood. . 

It is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our 
home. Tell not the invalid who is yearning after his dis- 
tant country, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that 
the gales are filled with balm, and the flowers are spring- 
ing from the green earth ; — he knows that the softest air 
to his heart would be the air which hangs over his native 
land ; that more grateful than all the gales of the south, 
would breathe the low whispers of anxious affection ; that 
the very icicles clinging to his own caves, and the snow 
beating against his own windows, would be far more pleas- 
ant to his eyes, than the bloom and verdure which only 
more forcibly remind him how far he is from that one spot 
which is dearer to him than the world beside.'; He may, 
indeed, find estimable friends, who will do all in their pow- 
er to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but they 
cannot supply the place of the long known and long loved ; 
they cannot read as in a book the mute language of his 
face ; they have not learned to wait upon his habits, and 
anticipate his wants, and he has not learned to communi- 
cate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, and 
thoughts, to them. He feels that he is a stranger ; and a 
more desolate feeling than that could not visit his soul. — 
How much is expressed by that form of oriental benedic- 
tion, May you die among your kindred ! 



jn<.iCfifylQn of n, Death Scene. — Miss Francis. 

ClKArE, agitated by these events, and her slight form 
daily bpcoraing mere shadowy, seemed like a celestial spir- 
it, wliich. ha.ving pes fornicd its mission on earth, melts into 
?. ^b<5ty wreuth, then c'isappears forever. Hers had alwayi 



142 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

been the kind of beauty that is eloquence, though it speaks 
not. The love she inspired was like that of some fair infant, 
which we would fain clasp to our hearts in its guileless beau- 
ty ; and when it repays our fondness with a cherub smile, its 
ingelic influence rouses all that there is of heaven within 
he soul. Deep compassion was now added to these emotions; 
and wherever she moved, the eye of pity greeted her, as it 
would some wounded bird, nestling to the heart in its timid 
loveliness. Every one who knew her felt the influence 
of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of character ; but 
vf^ry few had penetrated into its recesses, and discovered 
113 hidden treasures. Melody was there, but it was too 
plaintive, too delicate in its combination, to be produced by 
an unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching ef- 
fect, though they could not define its origin ; — like the ser- 
vant mentioned by Addison, who drew the bow across every 
string of her master's violin, and then complained that she 
could not, for her life, find where the tune was secreted. 

Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed 
deep within its caverns ; and to one only is access ever 
granted. Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on 
the surface, — but it was as deep as it was pure. It wis a 
pool which had granted its healing influence to one, but 
could never repeat the miracle, though an angel should 
trouble its waters. Assuredly he that could mix death in 
the cup of love which he offered to one so young, so fair, 
and so true, was guilty as the priest Avho administered 
poi.-on in the holy eucharist. 

Lucretia, now an inmate of the family, read to her, sup- 
ported her across the chamber, and watched her brief, gen- 
tie slumbers with an intense interest, painfully tinged with 
self-reproach. She was the cause of this premature de- 
cay, — innocent, indeed, but still the cause. Under such 
circumstances, the conscience is morbid in its sensibility, — 
unreasonable in its acuteness ; and the smiles and forgive- 
ti633 of those we have injured, tear on.l scorch it Uke burn- 
ing pincers. Yet there was one v/ho suffered even more 
Iban Lucretie, — though he was never eouscious of giving 
f!'.e moment's pain to the object of his earliest affection. 
Duiing the winter, every leisure iT>om<?nt wliich Dooiof 
V/illard's numerous avocations allowed him, was spent in 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 143 

Mis3 Osborne's sick chamber ; and every tone, every look 
of his went to her heart with a thrilling expression, which 
eeeined to say, *' Would I could die for thee ! Oh ! would 
ic God I could die for thee !" 

Thus pillowed on the arm of Friendship, and watched 
over by the eye of Love, Grace languidly awaited the re- 
turn of spring ; and, when May did arrive, wasted as she 
was, she seemed to enjoy its pure breath and sunny smile. 
Alas ! that the month, which dances around the flowery 
earth with such mirthful step and beaming glance, should 
call so many victims of consumption to their last home ! 
Towards the close of this delightful season, the invalid, 
bolstered in her chair, and surrounded by her affectionate 
family, was seated at the window, watching the declining 
sun. There was deep silence for a long while ; — as if her 
friends feared that a breath might scare the flitting soul 
from its earthly habitation. Henry and Lucretia sat on 
either side, pressing her hands in mournful tenderness ; 
Doctor Willard leaned over her chair and looked up to the 
unclouded sky, as if he reproached it for mocking him with 
brightness ; and her father watched the hectic flush upon 
her cheek with the firmness of Abraham, when he offered 
his only son upon the altar. Oh ! how would the heart 
of that aged sufferer have rejoiced within him, could he too 
have exchanged the victim ! 

She had asked Lucretia to place Somerville's rose on the 
window beside her. One solitary blossom was on it ; and 
she reached forth her weak hand to pluck it ; but its 
leaves scattered beneath her trembling touch. She looked 
up to Lucretia with an expression, which her friend could 
never forget, — and one cold tear slowly glided down her 
pallid cheek. Gently as a mother kisses her sleeping babe. 
Doctor Willard brushed it away ; and, turning hastily to 
conceal his quivering lip, he clasped Henry's hand with 
convulsive energy as he whispered, " Oh ! God of mer- 
cies, liow willingly would I have wiped away all tears frota 
her eye3 T ' 

There is something peculiarly impressive in manly grief. 
The eye of w^man overflows as readily as her heart ; but 
when waters gush from the rock, we feel that they ar« 
extorted by no gentle blow 



144 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



The invalid looked at Mm with affectionate regret, as if 
she thought it a crime not to love such endearing kindness; 
and every one present made a powerful effort to suppress 
painful, suffocating emotion.— Lucretia had a bunch of pur- 
ple violets fastened in her girdle, — and with a forced smile 
she placed them in the hands of her dying friend. She 
looked at them a moment with a sort of abstracted atten- 
tion, and an expression strangely unearthly, as she said, 
" I have thought that wild flowers might be the alphabet 
of angels, — whereby they write on hills and fields myste- 
rious truths, which it is not given our fallen nature to un- 
derstand. What think you, dear father ?" 

" I think, my beloved child, that the truths we do com- 
prehend are enough to support us through all our trials." 

The confidence of the Christian was strong within him, 
when he spoke ; but he looked on his dying daughter, th(i 
only image of a wife dearly beloved, — and nature prevail- 
ed. He covered his eyes, and shook his white hairs mourn- 
fully, as he added, " God in his mercy grant, that we may 
find them sufficient in this dreadful struggle." All was 
again still, — still, in that chamber of death. The bird? 
sung as sweetly as if there was no such thing as discord 
in the habitations of man ; and the blue sky was as bright 
as if earth were a sti-anger to ruin, and the human soul 
knew not of desolation. Twilight advanced, unmindful 
that weeping eyes watched her majestic and varied beautj. 
The silvery clouds, that composed her train, were fast sink- 
ing into a gorgeous column of gold and purple. It seemed 
as if celestial spirits were hovering around their mighty 
pavilion of light, and pressing the verge of the horizon 
with their glittering sandals. 

Amid the rich variegated heaps of vapour, was one spot 
of clear bright cerulean. The deeply coloured and heavy 
masses that surrounded it, gave it the effect of distarte; 
so that it seemed like a portion of the inner heaven. Gr-ice 
fixed her earnest gaze upon it, as a weary traveller does 
upon an Oasis in the desert. That awful lustre which the 
soul beams forth at its parting was in her eye, as she said, 
" I could almost fancy there are happy faces looking down 
to welcome me." 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 145 

** It is very beautiful," said Lucretia in a subdued tone. 
" It is such a sky as you loved to look upon, dear Grace.*' 

" It is such an one as we loved," she answered. " Thero 
was a time when it would have made me very happy ; but 
—my thoughts are now beyond it." 

Her voice grew faint, and there was a quick gasp, — as 
if the rush of memory was too powerful for her weak 
frame 

Doctor Willard hastily prepared a cordial, and offered 
it to her lips. Those lips were white and motionless ; her 
long, fair eyelashes drooped, but trembled not. — He placed 
his hand on her side ; — the heart that had loved so well, 
and endured so much, throbbed its last. 



The Rose. — Mrs. Sigourney. 

I SAW a rose perfect in beauty ; it rested gracefully 
upon its stalk, and its perfume filled the air. Many stopped 
to gaze upon it, many bowed to taste its fragrance, and its 
owner hung over it with delight. I passed it again, and be- 
hold it was gone — its stem was leafless — its root had with- 
ered ; the enclosure which surrounded it was broken down. 
The spoiler had been there ; he saw that many admired it ; 
he knew it was dear to him who planted it, and beside it he 
i)ad no other plant to love. Yet he snatched it secretly 
from the hand that cherished it ; he wore it on his bosom 
till it hung its head and faded, and, when he saw that its 
glory was departed, he flung it rudely away. But it left a 
thcrn in his bosom, and vainly did he seek to extract it; 
foi now it pierces the spoiler, even in his hour of mirth. 
And when I saw that no man, who had loved the beauty 
nf the rose, gathered again its scattered leaves, or bound 
fip the ftalk which the hands of violence had broken, 1 
looked ecinestly at the spot where it grew, and my soul 
received iustruction. And I said, Let her who is full 
of beauty and admiration, sitting like the queen of flow- 
ers in majesty among the daughters of women, let her 
watch lest vanity enter her heart, beguiling her to rest 
13 



146 COMMON-PLACE I300X OF PROSE. 

proudly upon her own strength ; let her remember thai 
she strindeth upon slippery places, " and be not high 
iriind,3d, but feai " 



, Influence of Female Character, — Thacher. 

The influence of woman on the intellectual character 
of the community, may not seem so great and obvious a3 
upon its civilization and manners. One reason is, that 
hitherto such influence has seldom been exerted in the 
most direct way of gaining celebrity — the writing of books. 
In our own age, indeed, this has almost ceased to be the 
case, and, if we should inquire for those persons, whose 
writings for the last half century have produced the most 
practical and enduring effects, prejudice itself must con- 
fess, that the name of more than one illustrious woman 
would adorn the catalogue. 

That the society and influence of woman has often prompt- 
ed and refined the efforts of genius, may be granted by the 
most zealous advocate for the superiority of our sex. From 
tlie hallowed retreats of the Port Royal issued the immor- 
tal writings of Pascal, Nicole and Racine ; and the heav- 
enly muse of Cowper had its inspiration nourished almost 
exclusively in the society of females. But,Whatever m^y 
be thought of the influence of the sex in these particu- 
lars, there is one point of view in which it is undeniably 
great and important. The mother of your children is 
necessarily their first instructer. It is her task to watch 
over and assist their dawning faculties in their first expan- 
sion. And can it be of light importance in what mani^r 
this task is performed ? Will it have no influence on the 
future mental character of the child, v/hether the first 
lights, which enter its understanding, are received from 
wisdom or folly ? Are there no bad mental habits, no last- 
ing biases, no dangerous associations, no deep-seated pre- 
judices, which can be communicated from the mother, the 
fondest object of the affection and veneration of the child? 
In fine, do the opinions of the age take no direction and 
no colounvig from -the modes of thinking which prevail 



•COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 147 

among one half of the minds that exist on earth ? Unless 
you are willing to say that an incalculably great amount 
of mental power is utterly wasted and thrown away ; or 
else, with a Turkish arrogance and brutality, to deny that 
wonian shares with you in the possession of a reasoning 
and immortal mind ; you must acknowledge the vast impor- 
tance of the influence, which the female sex exerts onthe 
intellectual character of the community. 

But it is in its moral effects on the mind and the hear! 
of man, that the influence of woman is most powerful and 
Impoitant. In the diversity of tastes, habits, inclinations 
and pursuits of' the two sexes, is found a most beneficent 
provision for controlling the force and extravagance of hu- 
man passions. The objects which most strongly seize and 
stimulate the mind of man, rarely act at the same time 
and with equal power on the mind of woman. While he 
delights in enterprise and action, and the exercise of the 
stronger energies of the soul, she is led to engage in calmer 
pursuits, and seek for gentler enjoyments. While he is 
summoned into the wide and busy theat.e of a contentious 
world, where the love of power and the love of gain, in 
all their innumerable forms, occupy and tyrannise over the 
poul, she is walking in a more peaceful sphere ; and though 
1 say not that these passions are always unfelt by her, ye 
ihey lead her to the pursuit of very difterent objects. The 
"urrent, if it draws its waters in both from the same source, 
moves with her not only in a narrower stream, and less 
impetuous tide, but sets also in a different direction. Hence 
it is that the influence of the society of woman is al.nost 
always ^o soften the violence of those impulses, which 
would otherwise act with so constant and fatal an influ- 
ence on the soul of man. The domestic fireside is the 
great guardian of society against the excesses of humar 
passions. When man, after his intercourse with the world, 
where, alas! he finds so much to inflame him with a fe- 
verous anxiety for wealth and distinction, retires at even- 
ing to the bosom qf his family, he finds there a repose for 
his tormenting caies. He finds something to bring him 
back to human sympathies. The tenderness of his wife 
and the caresses of his children introduce a new train of 
softer thoughts and gentler feelings. He is remin led o^ 



148 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

what constitutes the real felicity of man ; and, while Jul 
neart expands itself to the influence of the simple and in- 
timate delights of the domestic circle, the demons of ava- 
rice and ambition, if not exorcised from his breast, at l^as* 
for a time, relax their grasp. How deplorable would be the 
consequence if all these were reversed ; and woman, in- 
stead of checking the violence of these passions, were to 
employ her blandishments and charms to add fuel to their 
rage ! How much wider would become the empire of 
guilt ! What a portentous and intolerable amount would 
be added to the sum of the crimes and miseries of the hu- 
man race ! 

But the influence of the female character on the virtue 
of man, is net seen merely in restraining and softening the 
violence of human passions. To her is mainly committed 
the task of pouring into the opening mind of infancy its 
first impressions of dut\', and of stamping on its susceptible 
heart the first image of its God. Who will not confess the 
influence of a mother in forming the heart of a child ? What 
man is there who cannot trace the origin of many of the best 
maxims of his life to the lips of her who gave him birth ? 
How wide, how lasting, how sacred is that part of woman's 
influence I Who that thinks of it, who that ascribes any 
moral effect to education, who that believes tha. any good 
may be produced, or any evil prevented by it can need 
any arguments to prove the importance of the character 
and capacity of ber, who gives its earliest bias to the in- 
fant mind ? 

There is yet another mode, by which woman may ex- 
ert a powerful influence on the virtue of a community-. It 
rests with her, in a pre-eminent degree, to give tone and 
elevation to the nio'ral character of the age, by deciding 
the degree of \-irtue that shall be necessary to affcid a 
passport to her society. The extent of this innnence has 
perhaps never been fully tried : and, if the character cf 
our sex is not better, it is to be confessed that it is in no 
triflino: decree to be ascribed to the fault of vours. If all 



, the 


favour of woman we 


-e given onlv 


to the zood ; 


if it 


were known that the charms and attractions of beaut% 


. and 


wis 


lom, and wit, were res 


erved onlv for 


the pure; 


if. in 


one 


word, somethins: of a 


similar riscour 


were exerted tu 













COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOSE. 14D 

exclude the profligate and abandoned of our sex from j'our 
society, as is shown to those, who have fallen from virtue 
in your own, — how much would be done to reenforce the 
motives to moral purity among us, and impress on the 
minds of all a reverence for the sanctity and obligations of 
virtue ! 

The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of so- 
ciety is intimately connected with her influence on its re- 
ligious character ; for religion and a pure and elevated 
morality must ever stand in the relation to each other of 
effect and cause. The heart of woman is formed for the 
abode of Christian truth ; and for reasons alike honourable 
to her character and to that of the Gospel. From the na- 
ture of Christianity this must be so. The foundation of 
evangelical religion is laid in a deep and constant sense of 
the invisible presence, providence and influence of an in- 
visible Spirit, who claims the adoration, reverence, grati- 
tude and love of his creatures. By man, busied as he is 
in the cares, and absorbed in the pursuits of the world, this 
great truth is, alas ! too often and too easily forgotten and 
disregarded ; while v/oman, less engrossed by occupation, 
more " at leisure to be good," led often by her duties to 
retirement, at a distance from many temptations, and endued 
with an imagination more easily excited and raised than 
man's, is better prepared to admit and cherish, and be 
affected by, this solemn and glorious acknowledgment of a 
God. 

Again ; the Gospel reveals to us a Saviour, invested with 
little of that briMiant and dazzling glory, with which con- 
quest and success would array him in the eyes of proud 
and aspiring man ; but rather as a meek and magnanimous 
sufferer, clothed in all the mild and passive graces, all the 
sympathy with human wo, all the compassion for human 
frailty, all the benevolent interest inhuman welfare, which 
the heart of woman is formed to love ) together with all 
that solemn and supernatural dignity, which the heart of 
woman is formed peculiarly to feel and to reverence. To 
obey the com.mands, and aspire to imitate the peculiar vir- 
tues, of such a being, must always be more natural and 
easy for her than for man. 
13* 



150 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

So, too, it is with that future life which the Gospel ua 
veils, where all that is dark and doubtful in this sliall bj 
explained ; where penitence sliall be forgiven, and faith 
and virtue accepted ; where the tear of sorrow shall be 
dried, the wounded bosom of bereavement be healed ; 
where love and joy shall be unclouded and immortal. To 
these high and holy visions of faith I trust that man is not 
always insensible ; but the superior sensibility of woman, 
as it makes her feel more deeply the emptiness and wants 
of human existence here, so it makes her welcome with 
more deep and ardent emotions the glad tidings of salvation, 
the thought of communion with God, the hope of the puri- 
ty, happiness and peace of another and a better woi^M. 

In this peculiar susceptibility of religion in the female 
character, who does not discern a proof of the benignant 
care of Heaven of the best interest of man ? How wise 
It is, that she, whose instructions and example must have 
so powerful an influence on the infant mind, should be 
formed to own and cherish the most sublime and important 
of truths ! The vestal flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven 
m the breast of woman, diffuses its light and warmth over 
the world ; — and dark would be the world if it should eve** 
be extinguished and lost. 



Character of James Monroe* — Wirt. 

Itt his stature, he is about the middle height of men, 
rather firmly set, with nothing further remarkable in his 
person, except his muscular compactness, and apparent 
ability to endure labour. His countenance, when grave, 
has rather the expression of sternness and irascibility : a 
smile, however, (and a smile is not unusual with him in a 
social circle,) lights it up to very high advantage, and gives 
t a most impressive and engaging air of suavity and be- 
nevolence. Judging merely from his countenance, he is 
between the ages of forty-five and fifty years. His dress 



From " T.etteis of the British Spy," first published ia 1806. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 15 1 

and personal appearance are those of a plain and modes! 
gentleman. He is a man of soft, polite, and even assidu- 
ous attentions ; but these, although they are always well 
timed, judicious, and evidently the offspring of an obliging 
and philanthropic temper, are never performed with the 
striking and captivating graces of a Marlborough or a 
Bolmgbroke. To be plain, there is often in his manner an 
inartificial and even an awkward simplicity, which, while 
t provokes the smile of a more polished person, forces him 
to the opinion, that Mr. Monroe is a man of a most sin- 
cere and artless soul. 

Nature has given him a mind neither rapid nor rich ; 
ond, therefore, he cannot shine on a subject which is en- 
tirely new to him. But, to compensate him for this, he is 
endued with a spirit of restless and generous emulation, e 
judgment solid, strong and clear, and a habit of application, 
which no difficulties can shake, no labours tire. With 
these aids, simply, he has qualified himself for the first 
honours of this country ; and presents a most happy illus- 
tration of the truth of the maxim, Quisque, sues fortunes 
fdher. For his emulation has urged him to perpetual and 
unremitting inquiry • his patient and unwearied industry 
has concentrated before him all the lights which others 
have thrown on the subjects of his consideration, together 
with all those which his own mind, by repeated efforts, is 
enabled to strike ; while his sober, steady and faithful judg- 
ment has saved him from the common error of more quick 
and brilliant geniuses — the too hasty adoption of specious, 
but false conclusions. 

These qualities render him a safe and an able counsel- 
lor. And by their constant exertion he has amassed a store 
of knowledge, which, having passed seven times through 
the crucible, is almost as highly corrected as human knovv^l- 
edge can be ; and which certainly may be much more safe- 
ly relied on, than the spontaneous and luxuriant growth 
of a more fertile, but less chastened mind, — " a wild, where 
weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot." Having engaged 
very early, first in the life of a soldier, then of a statesman., 
then of a laborious practitioner of the law, and finally 
again of a politician, his intellectual operations have been 
almost entirely confined to juridical and political looica 



152 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Indeed, it is easy to perceive, that the mind of a mon en- 
gaged in so active a life must possess more native supple- 
ness, versatility and vigour, than that of Mr. Monroe, to b« 
able to make an advantageous tour of the sciences in the 
rare interval of importunate duties. It is possible tl.at the 
early habit of contemplating subjects as expanded as ihe 
earth itself, with all the relative interests of the great na- 
tions thereof, may have inspired him with an indifference, 
perhaps an inaptitude, for mere points of literature. Al- 
gernon Sydney/ has said, that he deems all studies unwor 
thy the serious regard of a man, except the study of the 
principles of just government ; and Mr. !Monroe, perhaps, 
concurs vdth our countryman in this as well as in his other 
principles. "Whatever may have been the occasion, his 
acquaintance with the fine arts is certainly ver}^ limited 
and superficial ; hut, making allowances for his bias towards 
republicanism, he is a profound and even an eloquent states- 
man. 

Knowing him to be attached to that political party, who, 
by their opponents, are sometimes called democrats, some- 
times jacobins ; and aware also that he was a man of warm 
and even ardent temper, I dreaded much, when I first en- 
tered his company, that I should have been shocked and 
disgusted with the narrow, virulent, and rancorous invec- 
tives of party animosity. How agreeably, how delightfully, 
was I disappointed ! Not one sentiment of intolerance 
polluted his lips. On the contrary, whether they be the 
offspring of rational induction, of the habit of survejing 
men and things on a great scale, of native magnanimity, 
or Ci 1 combination of all those causes, his principles, as 
far as they were exhibited to me, were forbearing, liberal, 
widely extended, and great. As the elevated ground 
which he already holds has been gained merely by the 
lint of application ; as every new step which he mounts 
Decomes a mean of increasing his powers still further, by 
opening a wider horizon to his view, and thus stimulating 
his enterprise afresh, re-invigorating his habits, multiplying 
the materials, and extending the range, of his knowledge, 
't would be no matter of surprise to me, if before his death 
the world should see him at the head of the American ad- 
ministration. So much for the governor of the commcD- 



COMMON-rLACE BOOli OF PROSE. 155 

svealth of Virginia, — a living, an honorable, an illustrious 
monument of self-created eminence, worth and greatness* 



llie Stout Gentleman. 

Irving 

It vv'as a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of Novem- 
ber. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by 
a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering ; but I 
was still feverish, and was o'-"~'^'^ to keep within doors ' 
all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet 
Sunday in a country nm — whoever has had the luck to ex 
periencG one can alone judge of my situation. The rain 
pattered against the casements ; the bells tolled for church 
with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest 
of something to amuse the eye ; but it seemed as if I had 
been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. 
Tlie windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs 
and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room 
coiamanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of 
nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world 
than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littere^' 
with straw, that had been kicked about by travellers ar - 
stabls-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of wate;' 
surrounding an island of muck ; there were several half 
drowned fowls, crov.^ded together under a cart, among 
which was a miserable crest-fallen cock, drenched out of 
all \\h 'MiA. spirit, his drooping tail matted, as it were, into 
a single feather, along which the water trickled from his 
back ; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the 
cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths 
of vapour rising from her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse.^ 
tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spec- 
tral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it 
frcm the eaves ; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house 
hard by, uttered something every now and then between 
a bark and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped 
backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, look- 
ing a? sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in shorts 



154 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drink- 
ing ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, 
and making a riotous noise over their liquor. 

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. Mv 
room soon became insupportable : I abandoned it, and sought 
what is technically called the travellers' room. This is a 
public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation 
of a class of v/ayfarers, called travellers, or riders, — a kind 
of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scour- 
ing the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They 
are the only successors that I know of, at the present day, 
to the knights-errant of J v/io. They lead the same kind 
of roving, adventurous life, only chan-^xng the lance for a 
driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat 
of mail for an upper-Eenjamin. Instead of vindicating 
the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading 
the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or 
manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in hia 
name ; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade instead of 
fight with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the 
good old fighting times, would be hung round at nighf 
with the armour of Vv^ay-worn warriors — such as coats of 
mail, falchions and yawning helmets ; so the travellers' 
room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors, — 
with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil- 
cloth covered hats. 

I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk 
Aith, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or 
three in the room ; but I could make nothing of them- 
One was just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his 
bread and butter, and huffing the waiter ; another button- 
ed on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for 
not having cleaned his shoes well ; a third sat drumming 
on the table with his fingers, and looking at the rain as it 
streamed down the window-glass ; they all appeared in- 
fected with the weather, and disappeared, one after the 
other, without exchanging a v/ord. 

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the peo- 
ple picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted 
mii-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to 
toh, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself 



COMMOx\-FLACE I500K OF I'llOSE. 155 

ivitli watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite, v.iio, 
being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sun- 
day tinery, played off tlieir charms at the front windows 
to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length 
Wire summoned away by a vigilant, vinegar-faced mother 
and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. 

What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? I 
was sadly nervous and lonely ; and every thing about an 
inn seeiHS calculated to make a dull day ten times duller : 
old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and 
which I had already read half a dozen times; good-for- 
nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather, i 
bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's 
Magazine. I read all the common-place names of ambi- 
tious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass ; the eternal 
families of the Smiths and the Browns, and the Jacksons 
and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I deciphered 
several scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry, which I 
have met with in all parts of the world. 

The day continued lowering and gloomy ; the slovenly, 
ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along ; there was no 
variety even in the rain ; it was one dull, continued, mo- 
notonous patter — patter — patter, except that now and then 
I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the 
rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. 

It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hack- 
neyed phrase of the day) v/hen, in the course of the morn- 
ing, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the 
street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering 
under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking 
'vith the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. The 
sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vag- 
abond boys and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed 
hostler, and that non-descript animal yclept Boots, and aV 
the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn : 
but the bustle u^as transient ; the coach again whirled on 
its way, and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk 
back again to their holes ; the street again became silent, 
and the rain continued to rain on. In fact there was no 
hope of its clearing up : the barometer pointed to rainy 
weather; mine hostess' tertcise-shell cat sat by the fir» 



156 COMMON-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 

washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears 
and, on referring to the almanac, I found a direful ]>redic« 
tion stretching from the top of the page to the bottom; 
through the whole month, " Expect — much — rain — about 
— this — time." 

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they 
would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock be- 
came irksome. At length the stillness of the house was 
interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after, I heard 
the voice of a waiter at the bar, — " The stout gentleman in 
No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, 
with ham and eggs ; the eggs not to be too much done." 
In such a situation as mine, every incident was of impor- 
tance. Here was a subject of speculation presented to ray 
mind ; and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone 
to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some 
materials to work upon. Had the guest up stairs been men- 
tioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or 
aierely as " the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been 
a perfect blank to me ; I should have thought nothing of 
it; but *' the stout gentleman!" — the very name had 
something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the 
size ; it imbodied the personage to my mind's eye, and my 
fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some term it, 
lusty ; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in 
life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his 
breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be 
a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the neces- 
sity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gen- 
tleman. 

There was another violent ringing ; the stout gentleman 
was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man 
ai importance ; " well to do in the world ;" accustomed to 
be promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and a little 
cross when hungry. " Perhaps," thought I, " he may be 
gome London alderman ; or who knows but he may be a 
member of parliament." 

The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short inter- 
val of silence ; he was doubtless making the tea. Presently 
there was a violent ringing, and, before it could be answereJ, 
another ringing stilj jjijsre violent. " Bless me ! v^hat a 



COMJMON-PLACE BOOK OF PliOSE. 157 

choleric old gentleman !" The waiter came down in a huff 
The butter was rancid ; the egg? were overdone ; the ham 
too salt. The stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eat- 
ing; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on 
the trot, and live in a state militant with the household. The 
hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a 
brisk, coquettish woman ;^ a little of a shrew, and something 
of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop 
for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the 
servants roundly, for their negligence in sending up so bad 
a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentle- 
man ; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man 
of consequence, entitled to make a noise, and to give trouble 
at a country inn. Other eggs and ham, and bread and 
butter, were sent up. They appeared to be more gracious- 
ly received ; at least there was no further complaint. J 
had not made many turns about the travellers' room, when 
there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was 
a stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentle- 
man wanted the Times or Chronicle newspaper. I set 
him down therefore for a whig ; or rather, from his beh:ig 
so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected 
him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large 
man ; " Who knows," thought I, " but it is Hunt himself ?" 
My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the 
waiter, who was this stout gentleman, that was making all 
this stir ; but I could get no information. Nobody seemed 
to know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldon-. 
trouble their heads about the names or occupations of tran- 
sient guests. The colour of the coat, the shape or size of 
the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is 
either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the 
gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snufF colour, or, 
as in the present instance, the stout gentleman : a des- 
ignation of the kind once hit on, answers every purpose, 
and paves all further inquiry, — Rain — rain — rain ! pitiless, 
ceaseless rain ! No such thing as putting a foot out of 
doors, and no occupation or amusement within. By and by 
I heard some one walking over head. It was in the stout 
gentleman's room. He evidently was a large man, by the 
heaviness of his treid ; and an old man, from his wearing 
14 



158 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Buch creaking sole?. " He is doubtless," thought I, " some 
rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now taking 
exercise after breakfast." 

I had to go to work at this picture again, and to pain* 
him entirely different. I now set him down for one of 
those stout gentlemen, that are frequently met with, swag- 
gering about the doors of country inns : moist, merry fel- 
lows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whoise bulk is a little as- 
sisted by malt liquors : men who have seen the world, and 
been sworn at High-gate ; who are used to tavern life ; up 
to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of 
sinful publicans ; free livers on a small scale, who are prod 
igal within the compass of a guinea ; who call all the wai- 
ters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landlady at 
the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus 
after dinner. The morning wore away in forming of these 
and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of 
belief, some movement of the unknown would completely 
overthrow it, and throw all my thoughts again into confu- 
sion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind 
I was, as I have said, extremely nervous ; and the continual 
meditation on the concerns of this invisible pei-sonage began 
to have its effect. Dinner time came. I hoped the stout 
gentleman might dine in the travellers' room, and that I 
might at length get a view of his person ; but no, he had din- 
ner served in his own room. What could be the meaning 
of this solitude and mystery ? He could not be a radical ; 
there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping him- 
self apart from the rest of the world, and condemning 
himself to his own dull company through a rainy day. And 
then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. 
He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit 
over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, 
my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could 
not have finished his first bottle, before I could faintly hear 
him humming a tune ; and, on listening, I found it to be 
" God save the King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no 
radical, but a faithful subject ; one that grew loyal over 
his bottle, and was ready to stand by King and Con- 
stitution when he could stand by nothing else. But who 
could he be ? My conjectures began to run wild. Was 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PPvOSE. 153 

he not some person of distinction travelling incog. ? " Wha 
knows ?" said I, at my wit's end ; " it may be one of the 
royal family, for aught 1 knov/, for they are all stout gen- 
tlemen!" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious 
unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his 
chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, a? 
the day advanced, the travellers' room began to be frequent- 
ed. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in 
box-coats ; others came home, who had been dispersed 
about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their 
tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found 
entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There 
were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road, 
and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. Thiey had 
a thousand sly things to say to the waiting maid, whom 
they called Louisa and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine 
names, changing the name every time, and chuckling 
amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, 
bad become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman 
He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it 
was not now to be diverted from the scent. 

The evenmg gradually wore away ; the travellers read 
the papers two or three times over ; some drew round the 
fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their ad- 
ventures, their overturns and breakings down. They dis- 
cussed the credit of different merchants and different inns. 
And the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty 
chambermaids and landladies. All this passed as they were 
quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to 
say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some 
other mixture of the kind, after which they, one after 
another, rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walke/ 
off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncom- 
fortable slippers. There was only one man left — a short- 
legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, 
sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port-wine 
negus and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and meditating 
and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He 
gradually fell asleep, but upright in his chair, with the 
empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed 
to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and 



160 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

cabbaged at tbe end, and dimmed the little light that re* 
mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed 
was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost 
spectral box-coats of the travellers, long since buried in 
deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with 
the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the 
drippings of the rain, — drop — drop — drop, — from the eaves 
of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at 
once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing 
slowly backwards and forwards. There was something ex- 
tremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of 
nerves, — these ghastly great-coats, these guttural breath 
iiigs, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious gentle- 
man. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at lengili 
died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up 
to the desperation of a hero of romance. " Be he who or 
what he may," said I to myself, " I'll have a sight of 
him !" I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up to No 
13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated, — 1 entered. The 
••oom was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed 
elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, 
and a Times newspaper ; and the room smelt powerfully 
of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently 
iust retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, 
which had been changed to the front of the house. As 1 
went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with 
dirty^ waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. 
They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but it would 
not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den. He 
might discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. 
I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in 
a tenibly nervous state, and, even when I fell asleep, I 
v/as still haunted by the idea of the stout gentleman and 
his wax -topped boots. 

I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened 
by some stir or bustle in the house, which I could not at 
lirst comprehend ; until, getting more awake, I found there 
was a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there 
was a cry from below, " The gentleman has forgotten his 
umbrci^ia .' look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13 !" 
I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid along 



COxMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. lb\ 

Ihe passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " Here it is . 
here's the gentleman's umbrella !" The mysterious stran« 
ger was, then, on the point of setting off. This was the 
only chance I could ever have of knowing him. 1 sprang 
out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the 
curtains, and just caught a glimpse at the rear of a person, 
getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat 
parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk 
of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed. **A11 
right !" was the word, — the coach whirled off, — and that 
was all I ever saw of the stout gentleman. 



Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams. — Webster 

He possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger, 
and a sanguine reliance on the goodness of the cause and 
the virtues of the people, which led him to overlook all 
obstacles. His character, too, had been formed in troubled 
times. He had been rocked in the eai'ly storms of the con- 
troversy, and had acquired a decision and a hardihood, 
proportioned to the severity ol the discipline w^hich he had 
undergone. 

He not only loved the American cause devoutly, but 
had studied and understood it. He had tried his powers, 
on the questions which it involved, often, and in various 
vvays ; and had brought to their consideration wha*3ver 
of argument or illustration the history of his own country, 
the history of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal 
learning could furnish. Every grievance enumerated in 
the long catalogue of the Declaration, had been the sub- 
>e.;t of his discussion, and the object of his remonstrance 
and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of 
the colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs 
inflicted on the colonies, had engaged his constant atten- 
tion ; and it has surprised those, who have had the oppor- 
tunity of observing, with what full remembrance, and with 
what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreme 
old age, to every act of parliament affecting the colonies, 
distinguishing and statins; their respective titles., sections 
14* 



IG2 COMMOM-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

and provisions ; and to all the colonial memorials, remon 
Btrances and petitions, with whatever else belonged to the 
intimate and exact history of the times, from that year to 
1775. It was, in his own judgment, between these years, 
that the American people came to a full understanding 
and thorough knowledge of their rights, and to a fixed res- 
olution of maintaining them ; and, bearing himself an ac- 
tive part in all important transactions, the controversy with 
England being then, in effect, the business of his life, facts, 
dates and particulars made an impression which was never 
effaced. He was prepared, therefore, by education and 
discipline, as well as by natural talent and natural temper- 
ament, for the part which he was now to act. 

The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general 
character, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold, 
manly and energetic ; and such the crisis required. 
When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous oc- 
casions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- 
sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it 
is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments 
Clearness, force and earnestness are the qualities which 
produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not 
consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labour 
and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 
Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but 
they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the 
subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- 
pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it — 
they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the 
outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 
force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- 
gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their 
wives, their children, and their country, hang on the de- 
cision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, 
rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. 
Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in 
the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is elo- 
quent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep- 
tion, out-running the deductions of logic, the high jurpose. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK ')F PROSE. 163 

the firm resolve, the ilauntless spirit, speaking ou the 
tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, 
and urging the whole man onward, right onward to hi* 
object — this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something 
greater and higher than all eloquence^ — it is action, noble, 
sublime, godlike action. 

In July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of 
argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- 
ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to de- 
cide whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the 
parent State, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. 
All the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this 
decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense 
anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were 
men called to a more important political deliberation. If 
we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, 
no question could be more full of interest ; if we look at 
it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears 
in still greater magnitude. 

Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was 
about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. 
Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations 
Let us survey the anxious and care-worn countenancey, 
let us hear tlu firm-toned voices, of this band of patriots. 

Hancock presides over the solemn sittmg ; and one of 
those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- 
dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- 
ing from the Declaration. 



U was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. 
We know his opinions, and we know his character. He 
would commence with his accustomed directness and ear- 
nestness. 

" Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my 
hand, and my heart, to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, 
in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But 
(here's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice 
of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own 
interest, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till in- 
lepcndence is now within our grasp. We have but .j 



164 COJIMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRU5E. 

reach forth to it, an.l it is ours. Why then should we de 
fer the Declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope 
for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave eitl>er 
safety- to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own 
life, and his own honour ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that 
chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you 
not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of 
punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of 
royal clemency, what are you, what can you he. while 
the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we pG=t.- 
pone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up 
the war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of par- 
liament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, 
and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, 
and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust : 
I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall sub- 
mit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation 
ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of 
our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth 
to incur the dangers of war, as well as the pohtical haz- 
ards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every 
extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there 
is not a man here, who would not rather see a general 
conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink 
it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the 
ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this 
place, moved you that George Washington be appointed 
commander of the forces, raised or to be raised, for defence 
of American libert}-,'may my right hand forget her cun- 
ning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if 
I hesitate or waver, in the support I give him. The war, 
then, must go on. We must fight it through. Aid if the 
war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of In- 
dependence ' That measure will strengthen us. It will 
give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with 
us, which they never can do ^hile we acknowledge our- 
selves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. 'Say, 1 
maintain tnat England herself will sooner treat for peace 
wich us on the footing of independence, than consent, by 
repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct 
towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression 



COMMON-PLACE IJOOK OF PROSE. 165 

Her pride will be less wounded, by submitting to that 
course of things which now predestinates our independence, 
•;han by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious 
subjects. The former she would regard as the result of for- 
tune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. 
Why then, why then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible, 
change this from a civil to a national war ? And, since we 
must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to 
enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory ? 

"If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall 
not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will 
create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to 
them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously 
through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people 
have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and 
I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and 
settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every 
colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if 
we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire 
the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and 
bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of 
grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British 
king, set before them the glorious object of entire inde- 
pendence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath 
of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army 
every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solcn.n 
vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of hon- 
our. Pubjish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, 
and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, re- 
solved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the pub- 
lic halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard 
the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who 
saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker 
Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the 
very walls will cry out in its support. 

" Siij I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, 
I see ciearly, through this day's business. You and I 
indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when 
this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, 
colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and 
un the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure 



166 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 

of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering 
of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed hou'" 
of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I da 
live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a coun- 
try, and that a free countrj". 

'•' But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be asjured, 
that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, ar.d 
Jt may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
pensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
i see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven 
V*'e shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When 
we a:e in our graves, our children will honour it. They 
will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with 
•bonlires and illuminations. On its annual return they will 
shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and 
«Iavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, oi 
gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour 
is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my 
whole heart is in it. All that 1 have, and all that 1 am, 
and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to 
stake upon it ; and I leave off, as I begun, that, live or die, 
survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my liv- 
ing sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my 
dyirig sentiment — independence now ; and ixdepex- 

DE:?fCE FOREVER I" 



Description of the Speedwell JMine in England — 

SlLLIilAX. 

Tv'e entered a wooden door, placed in the side of a hill 
and descended one hundred and six stone steps, laid like 
tho-e of a set of ce41ar stairs. The passage was regularly 
arched with brick, and was in all respects convenient. 

" Having reached the bottom of the steps, we found a 
handsome vaulted passage cut through solid limestone. 
The light of our candles discovered that it extended hori- 
zontally into the mountain, and its floor was covered with an 
unruffled expanse of water, four feet deep. The entrance 
of this passage was perfectly similar in form to the moitb 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE, 167 

of a common oven, only it was much larger. Its breadth, 
by my estimation, was about five feet at the water's sur- 
face, and its height four or five feet, reckoning from the 
same place. 

Oa this unexpected, and to me, at that moment, tncom- 
prehensible canal, we found launched a large, clean and 
convenient boat. 

We embarked, and pulled ourselves along, by taking 
hold of wooden pegs, fixed for that purpose in the walJs. 
Our progress was through a passage wholly artificial, it 
having been all blasted and hewn out of the solid rock. 
You will readily believe that this adventure was a delight- 
ful recreation. 1 never felt more forcibly the power of 
";ontrast. Instead of crawling through a narrow, dirty pas- 
sage, we were now pleasantly embarked, and were push- 
ing along into I knew not what solitary regions of this rude 
earth, over an expanse as serene as summer seas. We 
had not the odours nor the silken sails of Cleopatra's barge, 
hut we excelled her in melody of sound, and distinctness 
of echo ; for, when, in the gayety of my spirits, I began 
to sing, the boatman soon gave me to understand that no 
one should sing in his mountain, without his permission ; 
and, before I had uttered three notes, he broke forth in 
such a strain, that I was contented to listen, and yield the 
palm without a contest. 

His voice, which was strong, clear and melodious, made 
all those silent regions ring ; the long, vaulted passage 
augmented the effect ; echo answered with great distinct- 
ness, and had the genii of the mountain been there, they 
would doubtless have takei passage with us, and hearken- 
ed to the song. In the mean time we began to hear the 
sound of a distant water-fall, which grew louder and loud- 
er, as we advanced under the mountain, till it increased 
to such a roaring noise that the boatman could no longer 
i'c heard. In this manner we went on, a quarter of a mile, 
ijil we arrived m a vast cavern formed there by nature. 
1 he miners:^ as they were blasting the rocks, at the time 
when they were forming the vaulted passage, accidentally 
opened their way into this cavern. Here I discovered how 
the canal was supplied with water ; — I found that it com- 
municated with a river running through the ca'* ern a/ 



168 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

right angles with the arched passage, and falling down « 
precipice twenty-five feet into a dark abyss. 

After crossing the river, the arched way is continued a 
quarter of a mile farther, on the other side, making in the 
whole half a mile from the entrance. The end of the 
arch is six hundred feet below the summit of the moun- 
tain. When it is considered that all this was effected by 
mere dint of hewing and blasting, it must be pronoimced 
a stupendous performance. It took eleven years of con- 
stant labour to effect it. In the mean time the fortune of 
the adventurer was consumed, without any discovery of 
ore, except a very little lead, and, to this day, this great 
work remains only a wonderful monument of human la- 
bour and perseverance. 

During the whole period of five years that they contin- 
ued this work, after they crossed the cavern, they threw 
the rubbish into the abyss, and it has not sensibly filled 
it up. 

They have contrived to increase the effect of the cataract 
by fixing a gate along the ledge of rocks over which the 
river falls. This gate is raised by a lever, and then the whole 
mass of water in the vaulted passage, as well as that in 
the river, presses forward towards the cataract. I ascend- 
ed a ladder made by pieces of timber fixed in the sides of 
the cavern, and, with the aid of a candle elevated on a pole, 
I could discover no top ; my g-uide assured me that none 
had been found, although they had ascended very high. 
This cavern is, without exception, the most grand and sol- 
emn place that I have ever seen. "When you view me as 
in the centre of a mountain, in the midst of a void, where 
the regularity of the walls looks like some vast rotunda : 
when you think of a river as flowing across the bottom of 
this cavern, and falling abruptly into a profound abyssj 
with the stunning noise of a cataract ; when you imagine, 
that, by the light of a fire-work of gun-powder, played off 
on purpose to render this darkness visible, the foam of the 
cataract is illuminated even down to the surface of the 
water in the abyss, and the rays emitted by the livid blaze 
of this preparation are reflected along the dripping walls 
of the cavern till tliey are lost in the darker regions ajove, 
you will not wonder tliaf such a scene should seize on ray 



COMlVi .»N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 169 

whole soul, and fill me with awe and aswonishment, caus- 
ing me to exclaim, as I involuntarily did, MarveliDus are 
thy works. Lord God Almighty ! 

After ascending from the navigation mine, I attempted 
lo go up the front of one of the mountains, with the double 
purpose of obtaining a view of the valley from an elevated 
point, and ci" reaching the ancient castld But my labour 
proved fruitless ; the mountain, which from the valley 
jeemed not difficult to ascend, proved to be exceedingly 
steep. I toiled on, two thirds of the way up,, aui\ rindii g 
it steeper and steeper, and still resolved not O relinquish 
say purpose ; in the mean time it grew dark, wKvj the de- 
ij' of twilight, and I was suddenly enveloped in r^st and 
.■ain ; the steep side of the mountain became very slip^v^iry ; 
I fell frequently, and, at length, a deep and abrupt cha^cti, 
torn by the floods, completely arrested my progress, anC 
compelled me to make the best of my way down, which I 
did with no smalJ difficulty. In the midst of darkness and 
rain, 1 reached tht^ Castle-Inn, completely drenched, and 
exhausted with fatigv-e. 



Effects c^ the modern Vi^yHsion of knowledge. — 

In . jnsequence of this general di^usion of intelligence, 
nat" .ns are becoming vastly better «:>quainted with the 
I .ysical, moral and political conditionv> of each '.th&r. 
Whatever of any moment is transacted in ^e legislative 
pssemblies of one country is now very soou known, not 
inerely to the rulers, but also to the people, of li very other 
country. Nay, an interesting occurrence of an^ nature 
caunot transpire in an insignificant town of Eun.'^e or 
America, without finding its way, through the mediun» of 
the national journals/ to the. eyes and ears of all Christe^ 
dom. Every man must row be in a considerable degree 
a spectator of the doings of the world, or he is soon very 
far in the rear of the intelligence of the day. Indeed, 1> 
has only to read a respectable newspaper, bad he may .■ 
informed of the discoveries in the arts, the discit-. .^^ j. 



170 COMMO^ rLACE BOOK OF niOSE, 

Ihe eenaJcs, and the bearings of public opliiicn all ovei 
die T^orld. 

The reasons of all this may chiefly be found in that in- 
rreased desire of information, which characterizes the mass 
>f SQ..;icty in the present age Intelligence of every kind, 
and spiCi^lly political information, has become an article of 
profit ; a2d when once this is the case, there can be no 
doubt that it will be abundantly supplied. Besides this, it 
i^ important io remark, that the art of navigation has been 
■!?iihin a few ysars materially improved, and commercial 
relations have become vastly more extensive. The estab- 
lishment of packet ships between the two continents hzs 
brought London and Paris as near to us as Pittsburgh Siiid 
New Orleans. There is every reason to believe, that, 
Vvthin the next half century, steam navigation will render 
coLumunication between the ports of Europe and America 
as frequent, and almost i.s regular, as that by ordinary 
mails. The commercial houses of every nation are estab- 
lishing th^ir agencies in the principal cities of every 
other natio-jj and thus binding together *he people by every 
tie of interesi ; while at the same time they are furnishing 
innumerable channels, bj'^ which information may be cir- 
culated among evsry class ;i -he community. 

Hence it is, that the T;:,-,ral ini>uence which nations are 
exerting upon each ot'iJ-r, is greater than it has been at 
any antecedent per'.rj in the hiscory of the world. The 
institutions of ov.: country are be om.'ivg known, almost of 
necessity, to e^'ery other councry. Knowledge provokes 
to compari'^vii, and comparison eads to inflection. The 
fact that others are happier than themselves prompts men 
) ino'ure whence this difference proceeds, and how their 
ow'.' fl:!eiioraiion may be accomplished. By simpiy looking 
'"4'Ou a free people, an oppressed people instinctively feel 
.hat u\ey have inalienable rights , and they will nevey af- 
tf^rtvards be at rest, until the enjoyment of these rigi::f« 
ki guarar^Jed to them. Thus one form of government, 
which in any pre-eminent degree promotes the happiness 
of man, is gradually but irresistibly disseminating the prin- 
ciples of its constitution, and, from the very fact of its exist- 
ence, call ng into being those trains of thought, which miisl 



COMftv S-P' *CE BOOK OF PROSE. 171 

m the end revolutionize every government within the sj^nere 
of its influence, under which the people are oppressied. 

And thus is it that the field, in which mind may labour, 
has now become wide as the limits of civilization. A doc 
trine advanced by one man, if it have any claim to interest, 
Is soon known to every other man. The movement of one 
intellect now sets in motion the intellects of millions. We 
may now calculate upon effects, not upon a state or a people, 
but upon the melting, amalgamating mass of human na- 
t'lre. Man is now the instrument which genius wields at 
its will ; it touches a chord of the human heart, and nations 
vibiate in unison. And thus he who can rivet the atten- 
tion of a community upon an elementary principle hitherto 
neglected in politics or morals, or who can bring an acknowl- 
edged principle to bear upon an existing abuse, may, by his 
own intellectual might, with only the assistance of the 
press, transform the institutions of an empire or a world. 

In many respects the nations of Christendom collective- 
ly are becoming somewhat analogous to our own Federal 
Republic. Antiquated distinctions are breaking away, and 
local animosities are subsiding. The common people of 
different countries are knowing each other better, esteem- 
ing each other more, and attaching themselves to each 
other by various manifestations of reciprocal good will. It 
IS true, every nation has still its separate boundaries, and 
Its individual interests ; but the freedom of commercial in- 
tercourse is allowing those interests to adjust themselves 
to each other, and thus rendering the causes of collision of 
vastly less frequent occurrence. Local questions are be- 
coming of less, and general questions 3^ jfreater impor- 
tance. Thanks be to God, men have f»t last begun to 
understand the rights, and feel for the vi?rongs, of each 
other. Mountains interposed do ko*" so 'nuch make ene- 
mies of nations. Let the trump^.t of alarm be sounded, 
and its notes are now heard by eve*y nation, whether of 
Europe or America. Let »». voire, borne on the feeblest 
-.reeze, tell that the rights of man are in danger, and it 
floats over valley and mountain, across continent and ocean, 
until it has vibrated on the ear of the remotest dweller in 
Christendom. Let the arm of oppression be raised to crush 
the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard everv 



172 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

where, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-tonei 
murmur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of ag- 
grieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is Human Nature 
waking in her might from the slumber of ages, shaking 
herself from the dust of antiquated institutions, girding 
herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to 
conquer ; and wo unto the man, wo unto the dynasty^ wo 
unto the party, and wo unto the policy, on whom shall fall 
the scath of her blighthig indignation. 



The Love of human Estimation. — Buckmijvster. 

Is it true that a passion of such powerful and various 
operation, as that we have now been considering, is nc 
where recommended 'n Scripture as a motive of action ? 
Are we no where referred to the opinion of the world, no 
where expostulated with from a regard to reputation ? Are 
there no appeals made by any of the messengers of God's 
will to our sense of shame, to our pride, to our ambition, 
to our vanity ? Certain it is that such appeals are at least 
rarely to be met with. Our Saviour, indeed, seems to have 
thought it hazardous, in any degree, to encourage a regard 
to the opinion of the world as a motive to action, because, 
hov/ever advantageous might be its operation in some in- 
stances, where a higher principle was Avanting, still the 
most casual recommendation of a sentiment so natural, so 
seducing, and so universal, would have been liable to per- 
petual misconstruction and abuse. 

Indeed, no man can read the discourses of our Saviour, 
or of his apostles, without observing how utterly they are 
at war with the spirit of self-aggrandizement. Perhaps, 
however, you may expect, that 1 should refer you to ex- 
amples where this temper is clearly censured or punished, 
What think you, then, of the his*^^ry of Herod Agrippa ? 
" On a set day," says the historiiin, " Herod, arrayed in royal 
apparel, sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto the 
people. And the people gave a shout, saying. It is the 
voice of a god, and not of a man. And immediately the 
angel of the I<ord smote him, because he gave not Gorl 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 173 

the glory ; and he was eaten of worms, and gave up the 
ghost." I make no comments on this story. It is too sol 
emn. Think only, if such was the punishment of a mac 
for accepting the idolatrous flattery offered him, can they 
oe guiltless in the eyes of Heaven, who cannot live but 
upon the honey of adulation, and whose whole life is but 
a continual series of contrivances to gain the favour of the 
multitude, a continual preference of the gloiy of themselves 
to the glory of their Creator ? Is not this example of the 
requisitions of the Gospel sufficient ? Read then the dread- 
ful woes denounced against the Jewish rulers, not merely 
because they did not receive our Saviour, nor merely be- 
cause they were continually meditating his destruction ; 
but because they did all their works to be seen of men. 

But as nothing, perhaps, is gained in point of practical 
improvement, by pushing these principles of indifference 
to the world to an extreme, or in declaiming indiscrimi 
nately against any prevailing sentiment of extensive influ- 
ence, before we consider the restrictions under which the 
love of fame should be laid in the mind of a Christian, we 
willjjis we proposed, endeavour to ascertain, and candidly 
to allow, all those advantages, which may result from this 
regard to the opinion of others, when more pure and evan- 
gelical motives are either wanting or not sufficiently es- 
tablished. 

Here, then, we will allow, that much of the real as well 
as fictitious excellence, which has adorned the world, may 
be traced, in some degree, to the principle of emulation. 
We allow, that it calls forth the energietj of the young 
mind ; that it matures in our colleges and schools some of 
the earliest products of youthful capacity ; and that it of- 
fers incalculable aid to the lessons and to the discipline of 
instructers. When we look at our libraries, we can hard- 
ly find a volume, which does not, in a measure, owe its 
appearance to the love of fame. When we gaze on the 
ruins of ancient magnificence, or the rare remains of an- 
cient skill, we are obliged to confess, that we owe these to 
the influence of emulation. Nay, more, when we read the 
lives of great men, and are lost in wonder at their aston 
ishing intellectual supremacy, we are compelled to ac- 
knowledge, that for this we are partly indebted to the lore 
15^ 



IT-'. CO:,IMOX-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 

Bf fame. We acknowledge, also, that it often supplies suc- 
cessfully the place of nobler motives ; and that, notwith- 
standing the evils which grow out of its abuse, the world 
would suffer from its utter extinction. For the weight of 
public opinion is sometimes thrown into the scale of truth. 
We know that the popular sentiment will sometimes con- 
trol the tyranny of the powerful, and counteract the influ- 
ence of wealth ; that it restrains sometimes tt > madness 
of lust, and sometimes the cunning of malevolence. We 
are also sensible, that the influence of a regard to reputa- 
tion is often favourable to the improvement of social inter- 
course. To a deference to the world's opinion, and to a 
love of its good will, are we to attribute much of that po- 
liteness and propriety, which are discoverable in manners, 
and much of that courtesy, which, by habitual observance, 
sheds perhaps, at length, a favourable influence on the dispo- 
sition. It is this, which brings down the haughty- to con- 
descension, and softens the rough into gentleness. It is 
this which sometimes checks the offensiveness of vanity, 
and moderates the excess of selfishness. It causes thou- 
sands to appear kind, who would otherwise be rude, — and 
honourable, who would otherwise be base. 

These genial effects upon the intercourse of society are 
sufficient to induce us to retain the love of human estima- 
tion in the number of lawful motives. It was probably a 
view of some of these influences partially supplying the place 
of real benevolence, which induced the apostle sometimes 
to recommend a regard to human opinion. He advises the 
Roman converts to •'' provide things honourable in the eyes 
of all men." To the Philippians, after recommending all 
things honest, just, pure, and lovely, he ventures also tc 
add " whatsoever things are of good report." Nay, more ; 
he says not only, " if there be any virtue," but " if there 
be any praise, think on these things." We believe this is 
the most decisive testimony of approbation, which can be 
gathered from the Scripture. We will add, also, in favour 
of the useful operation of this universal passion^ that it 
perhaps cannot be completely engaged, like all the other 
passions, on the side of vice. For the highest degree of 
moral depravity is consistent only with an utter lusensi- 
Wlity to the opinion of the world ; and we are willing to 



COMMON-PI ACE BOOK OF PROSE. 175 

iiiUeve, also, that, were it net for this, the form and pro- 
fsdsion of Christianity would be more frequently outraged 
than it now is, by those who secretly detest it. 

And now, after all these acknowledgments, what new 
merit is conceded to our favourite passion ? After it has 
done its utmost, it can only quicken the energies of the 
mind, restrain sometimes the other passions, afford occa- 
sional aid to the cause of order and propriety, soften some of 
the asperities of social intercourse, and perhaps keep the 
sinner from open and hardened profligacy. But it cannot 
purify the affections, melt the hardness of the heart, ami 
break its selfishness, or elevate its desires to the region of 
purity and peace. 

We have seen that this regard to human estimation, 
though a principle of universal, I had almost said of infi- 
nite influence, is confined to very narrow limits in the 
Gospel of Christ. Is there nothing, then, provided to sup- 
ply the place of so powerful an agent in the formation of 
the human character ? Is there nothing left to awaken 
the ambition of the Christian, to rouse him from sloth and 
universal indifference, to call forth the energies of his 
mind, and to urge him forward in the career of holiness ? 
Yes ; if we will listen to the language of an apostle, whose 
history proclaims that his passions were not asleep, that his 
emulation was not quenched by the profession of Christi- 
anity, and whose spirit ever glowed with a most divine 
enthusiasm, — I say, if we listen to him, we shall find that 
there is enough to stimulate all the faculties of the soul, 
and, finally, to satiate the most burning thirst of glory. 
Yes, " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered 
into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God 
hath prepared for them that love him." Yes, our whole 
progress here, through all the varieties of honour and of 
dishonciur, of evil report and of good report, is a spectacle 
to angels and to men. We are coming into " an innumerable 
(Company of angels, and to the spirits of the just made per- 
fect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant, and 
to God, the Judge of all." These have been the spectators 
of our course, and from such we are to receive glory, and 
honour, and immortality. 



176 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



Extract from an Address on retiring from the puhUt 
Service of the United States of America. — Wash- 
ington. 

Iw looking forward to the moment which is intended to 
terminate the career of my public life, my feelings do not 
permit me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that 
debt of gratitude which I owe to my beloved country, foj 
the many honours it has conferred upon me ; still more foi 
the steadfast confidence with which it has supported me ; 
and for the opportunities I have thence enjoyed of mani- 
festing my inviolable attachment, by services faithful and 
persevering, though in usefulness unequal' to my zeal 
If benefits have resulted to our country from these services, 
let it always be remembered to your praise, as an instructive 
example in our annals, that, under circumstances in which 
the passions, agitated in every direction, were liable to 
mislead, amidst appearances somewhat dubious, vicissitudes 
of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not 
unfrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit 
of criticism. — the constancy of your support was the essen- 
tial prop of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans, by 
Vvhich they were effected. Profoundly penetrated with this 
idea, I shall carry it with me to my grave, as a strong 
incitement to unceasing prayers, that Heaven may continue 
to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence ; that your 
union and brotherly affection may be perpetual ; that the 
free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be 
sacredly maintained ; that its administration, in every 
department, may be stamped with wisdom and virtue ; that, 
in fine, the happiness of the people of these States, under 
the auspices of liberty, may be made complete, by so care- 
ful a preservation, and so prudent a use, of this blessing, 
as will acquire to them the glory of recommending it to 
the applause, the affection, and adoption, of every nation 
which is yet a stranger to it. 

Here, perhaps, I ought to stop. But a solicitude for 
your welfare, which cannot end but with my life, and the 
apprehension of danger, natural to that solicitude, urge raa. 



COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 177 

on an occasion like the present, to offer to your solemn 
contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review, 
some sentiments, which are the result of much reflection, 
of no inconsiderable observation, and which appear to me 
all-important to the permanence of your felicity. as a peo- 
ple. These will be offered to you with the more freedom, 
as you Can only see in them the disinterested warnings 
of a partmg friend, who can possibly have no motive to bias 
his counsel. Nor can I forget, as an encouragement to it, 
your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former, 
and not dissimilar occasion. 



Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political 
prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports 
In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism, 
who should labour to subvert these great pillars of human 
happiness—these firmest props of the duties of men and 
citizens. The mere politician, equally with the pious man, 
ought to respect and to cherish them. A volume could not 
trace all their connexions with private and public felicity. 
Let it simply be asked, where is the security for property, 
for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation 
desert the oaths, which are the instruments of investiga- 
tion in courts of justice ? And let us with caution indulge 
the supposition, that morality can be maintained without 
religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence of 
refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason 
Aiid experience both forbid us to expect that national 
morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principles. 

It is substantially true, that virtue or morality is a ne- 
cessary spring of popular government. The rule, indeed, 
extends with more or less force to every species of free 
government. Who, that is a sincere friend to it, can look 
wi^h indiffenence upon attempts to shake the foundation of 
tYia fabric ? 

Promote, then, as an object of primary importance, 
institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. In 
proportion as the structure of a government gives force to 
public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should b« 
enlightened. 



178 COMMON-PLACE KOOK OF PSOSE. 

Observe good faith and justice towards all nations; cui< 
tivate peace and harmony with all ; religion and morality 
enjoin this conduct; and can it be that good policy does not 
equally enjoin it ? It will be worthy of a free, enlight- 
ened, and, at no distant period, a great nation, to give to 
mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a peo- 
ple always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence 
Who can doubt, that, in the course of time and things, the 
fruits of such a plan would richly repay any temporary 
advantages which might be lost by a steady adherence tc 
it ? Can it be, that Providence has not connected the per- 
manent felicity of a nation with its virtue ? The experi- 
ment, at least, is recommended by every sentiment which 
ennobles human nature. Alas ! is it rendered imoossible by 
its vices ? 



In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an 
old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope they will make 
the strong and lasting impression I could wish ; that they 
will control the usual current of the passions, or prevent 
our nation from running the course which has hitherto 
narked the destiny of empires. But if I may even flatter 
myself that they may be productive of some partial bene- 
fit, some occasional good ; that they may now and then 
recur, to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against 
the mischiefs of foreign intrigue, to guard against the im- 
postures of pretended patriotism ; this hope will be a full 
recompense for that solicitude for your welfare, by which 
they have been dictated. 

How far, in the discharge of my official duties, I have 
been guided by the principles which have been delineated, 
the public records and other evidences of my conduct 
must witness to you and the world. To myself the assur- 
ance of my own conscience is, that I have at least 
BELIEVED myself to be guided by them. 

Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, 
I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless 
too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that 1 
may have committed many errors. Whatever they may 
be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert and mitigate 



00:»1MON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 179 

liie evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry v/iih 
tne the hope, that my couutry will never cease to view 
iiiein with indulgence ; and that; after forty-five years of 
my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the 
faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, 
as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest. 

Relying on its kindness in this, as in other things, and 
actuated by that fervent love towards it, which is so natu- 
ral to a man who views in it the native soil of himself 
and his progenitors for several generations, I anticipate 
with pleasing expectation that retreat, in which 1 promise 
myself to realize, without alloy, the sweet enjoyment of 
partaking, in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign 
iniluence of good laws under a free government, — the ever 
favourite object of my heart, — and the happy reward, as J 
trust, of our mutual cares, labours, and dangers. 

United States, September 17ih, 1796. 



Speech over the Grave of Black Buffaloe, Chief of the 
Teton Tribe of Indians. — Big Elk Maha Chief 

Do not grieve. Misfortunes will happen to the wisest 
and best men. Death will come, and always comes out of 
season. It is the command of the Great Spirit, and all 
nations and people must obey. What has passed, and can- 
not be prevented, should not be grieved for. Be not 
discouraged or displeased, then, that, in visiting your father 
here, you have lost your chief. A misfortune of this kind 
may never again befall you ; but this would have attended 
you, perhaps, at your own village. Five times have I 
visited this land, and never returned with sorrow or pain. 
Misfortunes do not flourish particularly in our path. They 
grow every where. What a misfortune for me, that I 
.Tould not have died this day, instead of the chief that lies 
before us ! The trifling loss my nation would have sus- 
tained in my death, would have been doubly paid for by 
the honours of my burial. They would have wiped off 
every thing like regret. Instead of bemg covered with a 
eloud of soirow. my warriors would have felt fhe sunshine 



180 COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE. 

of joy in their hearts. To me it would have heen a moS| 
glorious occurrence. Hereafter, when I die at home, 
instead of a noble grave and a grand procession — the rolling 
music and the thundering cannon — with a flag waving at 
my head, — I shall be wrapt in a robe — an old robe per- 
haps — and hoisted on a slender scaffold to the whistling 
winds, soon to be blown to the earth — my flesh to be de- 
voured by the wolves, and my bones rattled on the plain 
by the wild beasts. 

Chief of the soldiers* — your labours have not been in 
vain. Your attention shall not be forgotten. My nation 
shall know the respect that is paid over the dead. When 
1 return I will echo the sound of your guns. 



Speech of Qo-NA-YU-wus, or Farmer's Brother. 

The sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation 
to the sachems and chiefs assembled about the great 
council-fire of the state of New York. 

Brothers — As you are once more assembled in council 
for the purpose of doing honour to yourselves and justice 
to your country, we, your brothers, the sachems, chiefs, 
and warriors of the Seneca nation, request you to open 
your ears, and give attention to our voice and wishes. 

Brothers — You will recollect the late contest between 
j^ou and your father, the great king of England. This 
contest threw the inhabitants of this whole island into a 
great tumult and commotion, like a raging whirlwind, 
which tears up the trees, and tosses to and fro the leaves, 
so that no one knows from whence they come, or when 
they will fall. 

Brothers — This whirlwind was so directed by the Great 
Spirit above, as to throw into our arms two of your infant 
children, Jasper Parrish and Horatio Jones. We adopted 
them into our families, and made them our children. We 
loved them and nourished them. They lived with ua 
many years. At length the Great Spirit spoke to the 

* Colonel Miller. 



COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 181 

whirlwind — and it was still.* A clear and uninterrupted 
sky appeared. The path of peace was opened, and the 
chain of friendship was once more made bright. Theu 
these, our adopted children, left us to seek their relations. 
We wished them to remain among us, and promised, if they 
would return and live in our country, to give each of them 
a seat of land for them and their children to sit down upon. 

Brothers — They have returned, and have for several 
years past been serviceable to us as interpreters. We still 
feel our hearts beat with affection for them, and now wish 
to fulfil the promise we made them, and to reward them 
for their services. We have therefore made up our minds 
to give them a seat of two square miles of land lying on the 
outlet of Lake Erie, about three miles below-Black Rock. 

Brothers — We have now made known to you our minds. 
We expect and earnestly request, that you will permit our 
friends to receive this our gift, and will make the same good 
to them, according to the laws and customs of your nation. 

Brothers — Why should you hesitate to make our mindi 
easy with regard to this our request ? To you it is but a 
little thing ; and have you not complied with the request, 
and confirmed the gift, of our brothers the Oneidas, the 
Onondagas, and Cayugas, to their interpreters ? and shall 
we ask, and not be heard ? 

Brothers — We send you this our speech, to which we 
expect your answer before the breaking up of your great 
council-fire. 



Abdication of JVapoleon, and Retirement of Lafayette. — 

TiCKNOR. 

At last, on the 21st of June, Bonaparte arrived from 
Waterloo, a defeated and a desperate man. He wag 
a. ready determined to dissolve the representative body, 
and, assuming the whole dictatorship of the country, play 
at least one deep and bloody game for power and success. 
Some of his council, and among the rest Regnault de St 



* God said, Let bere be light j and tlieie was light. 



182 COMMGX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Jean d'An^ely, who were opposed to this violent measure, 
informed Lafayette that it would be taken instantly, and 
that in two hours the chamber of representatives would 
cease to exist. There was, of course, not a moment left 
for consultation or advice ; the emperor or the chamber 
must fall that morning. As soon, therefore, as the session 
was opened, Lafayette, with the same clear courage, and 
in the same spirit of self-devotion, with which he had 
stood at the bar of the national assemoly m 1792, mmedi- 
ately ascended the tribune, for the first time for twenty 
years, and said these few words ; which, assuredly, would 
have been his death warrant, if he had not been supported 
in them by the assembly he addressed : 

" When, after an interval of many years, I raise a voice, 
which the friends of free institutions will still recognise, I 
feel myself called upon to speak to you only of the dan- 
gers of the country, which you alone have now the power 
to save. Sinister intimations have been heard ; they are 
unfortunately confirmed. This, therefore, is the momen 
for us to gather round the ancient tri-coloured standard ? 
the standard of '89 ; the standard of freedom, of equal 
rights, and of public order. Permit, then, gentlem.en, a 
veteran in this sacred cause, one who has always been a 
stranger to the spirit of faction, to offer you a few prepar- 
atory resolutions, whose absolute necessity, I trust, you 
feel as I do." 

These resolutions declared the chamber to be in perma- 
nent session, and all attempts to dissolve it, high treason ; 
and they also called for the four principal ministers to come 
to the chamber and explain the state of affairs. Ecnaparte 
is said to have been much agitated when word was brought 
him simply that Lafayette was in the tribune ; and his 
fears were certainly not ill founded ; for these resolutions, 
which were at once adopted, both by the representative! 
and the peers, substantially divested him of his power, am 
left him merely a factious and dangerous individual in tb 
midst of a distracted state. 

He hesitated during the whole day as to the course h 
should pursue ; but, at last, hoping that the eloquence ol 
Lucien, which had savec him on the 18th Brumaire, might 
be found no less effectual ow, he sent him, with three other 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRuyE. 1S3 

ministers to the chamber, just at the beginning of the 
evening ; having first obtained a vote that all should pass 
in secret session It was certainly a most perilous crisis. 
Reports were spread abroad that the popukce of the faux- 
bourgs had been excited, and were arming themselves. It 
was believed, too, with no little probability, that Bonaparte 
would march against the chamber, as he had formerly 
marched against the council of five hundred, and dis- 
perse them at the point of the bayonet. At all events, it was 
a contest for existence, and no man could feel his life safe. 
At this moment Lucien rose, and, in the doubtful and 
gloomy light which two vast torches shed through the 
hall, and over the pale and anxious features of the mem- 
bers, made a partial exposition of the state of affairs, and 
the projects and hopes he still entertained. A deep and 
painful silence followed. At length Mr. Jay, well known 
above twenty years ago in Boston, under the assumed 
name of Renaud, as a teacher of the French language, and 
an able writer in one of the public newspapers of that city, 
ascended the tribune, and, in a long and vehement speech 
of great eloquence, exposed the dangers of the country, 
and ended by proposing to send a deputation to the empe- 
ror, demanding his abdication. Lucien immediately fol- 
lowed. He never showed more power, or a more impas- 
sioned eloquence. His purpose was to prove that France 
A'^as still (ievoted to the emperor, and that its resources 
were still equal to a contest with the allies. " It is not 
Napoleon," he cried, " tha't is attacked ; it is the French 
people. And a proposition is now made to this people to 
abandon their emperor ; to expose the French nation, 
before the tribunal of the world, to a severe judgment on 
its levity and inconstancy. Ko, sir, the honour of this 
nation shall never be so compromised !" On hearing 
these words, Lafayette rose. He did not go to the tribune, 
but spoke, contrary to rule and custom, from his place. 
His manner was perfectly calm, but marked with tlie vev;- 
spirit of rebuke ; and he addressed himself, not to the 
president, but directly to Lucien : " The assertion, whicli 
has just been uttered, is ;a calumny. Who shall dare to 
accuse the French nation of inconstancy to the emperor 
Napoleon ' That nation had followed his bloody footsteua 



184 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

through the sands of Egypt, and through the 'waales oi 
Russia; over fifty fields of battle ; in disaster as faithfully 
as in victory ; and it is for having thus devotedly followed 
him, that we now mourn the blood of three millioas of 
Frenchmen." These few words made an impression on 
the assembly, which could not be mistaken ; and, aa 
Lafayette ended, Lucien himself bowed respectfully to 
him, and, without resuming his speech, sat down. 

It was aetermined to appoint a deputation of five mem- 
bers from each chamber, to meet the grand council of the 
'ministers, and deliberate in committee on the measures to 
be taken. This body sat during the night, under the 
presidency of Cambaceres, arch- chancellor of the .empire 
Lafayette moved, that a deputation should be sent to Napo- 
leon, demanding his abdication. The arch-chancellor 
refused to put the motion, but it was as much decided as if 
il had been formally carried. The next morning, June 
22d, the emperor sent in his abdication, and Lafayette was 
ou the committee that went to the Thuilleries to thank 
him for it on behalf of the nation. 

A crude, provisional government was now esti": lished 
by the two chambers, which lasted only a few days, and 
whose principal measure was the sending a deputation to 
the allied powers, of which Lafayette was the head, to 
endeavour to stop the invasion of France. This of course 
failed, as had been foreseen ; Paris surrendered on the 3d of 
July, and what remained of the representative government, 
which Bonaparte had created for his own purposes, but 
v,-hich Lafayette had turned against him, was soon after- 
wards dissolved. Its doors were found guarded on the 
morning of the 8th, but by what authority has never been 
known ; and the members met at Lafayette's house, enterec 
their formal protest, and went quietly to their own homes 

Lafayette retired immediately to La Grange, from which, 
i;i fact, he had been only a month absent, and resumed at 
once his agricultural employments. There, in the irJd«t 
of a family of above twenty children and grand childrer, 
who all look up to him as their patriarchal chief, he Ilv&» 
in a simple and sincere happiness, rarely granted to th&if*' 
who have borne such a leading part in the troubles ixii 
sufferings of a great period of political revolutl«l *>.- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 185 

1817, he has been twicj elected to the chamber of depu- 
ties, and in all his votes has shown himself constant to hi3 
ancient principles. When the ministry proposed to estab- 
lis?i a censorship of the press, he resisted them in an able 
speech ; but Lafayette was never a factious man, and 
therefore he has never made any further opposition to the 
present order of things in France, than his conscience and 
nis official place requirsd. That he does not approve the 
present constitution of the monarchy, or the political prin- 
ciples and management of the existing government, his 
votes as a deputy, and his whole life, plainly show ; and 
that his steady and temperate opposition is matter of serious 
anxiety to the family now on the throne is apparent, from 
their conduct towards him during the last nine years, and 
their management of the public press since he has been in 
this country. If he chose to make himself a tribune of the 
people, he might at any moment become formidable ; but 
he trusts rather to the progress of general intelligence and 
political wisdom throughout the nation, which he feels 
sure will at last bring his aountry to the practically free 
government, he has always been ready to sacrifice his life 
to purchase for it. To this great result he looks forward, 
as Madame de Stael has well said of him, with the entire 
confidence a pious man enjoys in a future life ; but when 
he feels anxious and impatient to hasten onward to it, he 
finds a wisdom tempered by long experience stirring within 
him, which warns him, in the beautiful language of Mil- 
ton, that " they also serve, who only stand and wait " 



Extract from *' Hyperion.*** — Josiah Quinct, Jun. 

When I reflect on the exalted character of the 
antient Britons, on the fortitude of our illustrious prede- 



* The first part of this extract was published in the Boston Gazette 
m September, 1767, on receiving information of threatening import from 
Englari ; the remainder appeared in October, 17G8, when British 
troops had landed in Boston, and taken possession of F^neuil Hall 
under circumstances intended to inspire the pe^T>?' • %i> alarm an , 
terror.— Ed. 

le ^ 



aS6 COimOX-PLACE iiOULL OF PROSE, 

tessors, on the noble struggles of the late memorabit 
period, and from these reflections, when, by a natural 
Iransitioa, 1 contemplate the gloomy aspect of the present 
day, my heart is alterr-ately torn with doubt and hope, 
despondency and terror. Can the true, generous magna- 
nimity of British heroes be entirely lost in their degene- 
rate progeny? Is the genius of liberty, which so late 
inflamed our bosoms, fied forever ? 

An attentrre observer of the deportment of some jartic- 
olar po'sms in tiiis metropolis would be apt to Imagine, that 
file grajd punt was gained ; that the sfiiit of the people 
was entirely broken to the yoke ; diat all America was 
subjugated to bcmdage. Already the minions of power in 
fancy fatten and grow wanton on the ^loils of the land. 
They insolently toss the head, and put on the air of con- 
tempt .ous disdain. In the imaginary possession of lord- 
ships and dominions, these potentates and powers dare tell 
OS, that our only hope is to crooch, to cower under, and to 
kiss, the iron rod of oppression. Precious sample of the 
meek and lowly temper of those who are destined to be our 
lords and masters \ 

Be not deceived, my countrymen- BeKere not these 
venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their sub- 
tilties into submisaon, or frighten you by their vapourings 
into OMnpliance. When they strive to flatter you by the 
terms " moderatiim and prudence," tell them that calmness 
and deliberation are to guide the judgment ; (»nrage and 
intrepidity command the action. When they endearour to 
make us "perceive our inability to oppose oar mother 
country," let us boldly answer ; — In defence of our civil 
and religious rights, we dare oppose the world ; with the 
God of armies on our side, even the God who fought oar 
(asters' batfles, we fear not the hour of trial, though the 
hosts of our enemies should cover the field like locusts. 
If this be enthusiasm, we will live and die enthusiasts. 

Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats of 
a "halter" intimidate. For, under God, we are deter 
mined, that wheresoever, whensoever, or howsoever we 
shall be called to make our exit, we wiE die freemen 
Well do we know tiiat all the regalia of this world cannot 
iisrnify the death of a villain, nor diminish the ignominy. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 187 

with which a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it 
taint the unblemished honour of a son of freedom, though 
he should make his departure on the already prepared gib- 
bet, or be dragged to the newly erected scaffold for execu- 
tion. With the plaudits of his conscience he will go off 
the stage. A crown of joy and immortality shall be his 
reward. The history of his life his children shall vene- 
rate. The virtues of their sire shall excite their emula- 
tion. 



If there ever was a time, this is the hour, for America; j5 
to rouse themselves, and exert every ability. Their all is 
at a hazard, and the die of fate spins doubtful. In vain 
do we talk of magnanimity and heroism, in vain do we 
trace a descent from the worthies of the earth, if we inherit 
not the spirit of our ancestors. Who is he that boasteth 
of his patriotism ? Has he vanquished luxury, and sub- 
dued the worldly pride of his heart ? Is he not still drink- 
ing the poisonous draught, and rolling the sweet morsel 
under his tongue ? He who cannot conquer the little van- 
ity of his heart, and deny the delicacy of a debauched 
palate, let him lay his hand upon his mouth, and his moutb 
in the dust. 

Now is the time for this people to summon every aidj 
human and divine ; to exhibit every moral virtue, and call 
forth every Christian grace. The wisdom of the serpent, 
the innocence of the dove, and the intrepidity of the lion, 
with the blessing of God, will yet save us from the jaws 
of destruction. 

Where is the boasted liberty of Englishmen, if property 
may he disposed of, charters suspended, assemblies dissolv- 
ed, and every valued right annihilated, at the uncontrol- 
lable will of an external power ? Does not every man, who 
feels one ethereal spark yet glowing in his bosom, find his 
indignation kindle at the ^are imagination of such wrongs? 
Wh?t would be our sentiments were this imagination real- 
ized. 

Did the blood of the ancient Britons swell our veins, did 
the spirit of our forefathers inhabit our hreasts, should we 
hesitate a moment in preferring death to a miserable exis-'-- 



188 COMMO^• -PLACE BOOK OF PROi^E. 

ence in bondage ? Did we reflect on their toils, tbeii 
dangers, their fiery trials, the thought would inspire 
unconquerable courage. 

Who has the front to ask. Wherefore do you complain ? 
Who dares assert, that every thing worth living for is not 
lost, when a nation is enslaved ? Are not j-ensioners, sti- 
pendiaries and salary-men, unknown before, hourly multi- 
plying upon us, to riot in the spoils of miserable America ? 
Does not every eastern gale waft us some new insect, even 
of that devouring kind, which eat up every green thing ? 
Is not the bread taken out of the children's mcutns and 
given unto the dogs ? Are not our estates given to corrupt 
sycophants, without a design, or even a preteuco, of solicit- 
ing our assent ; and our lives put into the hands of those 
whose tender mercies are cruelties ? Has not an author- 
ity in a distant land, in the most public manner, proclaimed 
a right of disposing of the all of Americans ? In short, 
what have we to lose ? What have we to fear ? Are not 
our distresses more than we can bear ? And, to finish all, 
are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with 
standing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the 
wretched — to open their mouths in complaint, and send 
forth their cries in bitterness of heart ? 

But is there no ray of hope ? Is not Great Britain 
inhabited by the children of those renowned barons, who 
waded through seas of crimson gore to establish their lib- 
erty ? and will they not allow us, their fellow-men, to 
enjoy that freedom which we claim from nature, which is 
confirmed by our constitution, and which they pretend so 
highly to value ? Were a t^-rant to conquer us, the chains 
of slavery, when opposition should become useless, might 
be supportable ; but to be shackled by Englishmen, — by 
our equals, — is not to be borne. By the sweat of our 
brow we earn the little we possess ; from nature we derive 
the common rights of man ; and by charter we claim the 
liberties of Britons. Shall we, dare we, pusillanimously 
surrender our birthright ? Is the obligation to our fathers 
discharged ; Is the debt we owe posterity paid ? Answer 
me, thou coward, who hidest thyself in the hour of trial ; 
If there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the 
next, capable of aninating thy dastard soul, think and 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 189 

tremble, thou miscreant ! at the whips and stripes thy 
master sljall lash thee with on earth, — and the flames and 
scorpions thy second master shall torment thee with here 
after ! 

Oh, my countrymen ! what will our children say, when 
they read the history of these times, should they find that 
we tamely gave away, without one noble struggle, the 
n..ost invaluable of earthly blessings ! As they drag the 
galling chain, will they not execrate us ? If we have any 
respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treas- 
ure on earth ; if we have one tender sentiment for poster- 
ity ; if we would not be despised by the whole world ;— 
let us, in the most open, solemn manner, and with deter- 
mined fortitude, swear — We will die, if we cannot live 
freemen ! 

Be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations 
or idle fancies. To hope for the protection of Heaven, 
without doing our duty, and exerting ourselves as becomes 
men, is to mock the Deity. Wherefore had man his reason, 
jf it were not to direct him ? wherefore his strength, if it 
be not his protection ? To banish folly and luxury, correct 
vice and immorality, and stand immoveable in the freedom 
in which we are free indeed, is eminently the duty of each 
individual at this day. When this is done, we may ration- 
ally hope for an answer to our prayers — for the whole 
counsel of God, and the invincible armour of the Almighl5^ 

However righteous our cause, we cannot, in this period 
of the world, expect a miraculous salvation. Heaven will 
undoubtedly assist us if we act like men ; but to expect 
protection from above, while we are enervated by luxury, 
and slothful in the exertion of those abilities, with which 
we are endued, is an expectation vain and foolish. Yfith 
the smiles of Heaven, virtue, unanimity and firmness will 
ensure success. While we have equity, justice and God 
on oui side, Tyranny, spiritual or temporal, shall never 
tide triumphant in a land inhabited by Eiglishmen. 



190 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



The Sabbath in JVew EnglandJ* — Miss Sedgwick.. 

The observance of the Sabbath began with the Puri 
tans, as it still does with a great portion of theii descend- 
ants, on Saturday night. At the going down of the sun 
on Saturday, all temporal affairs were suspended ; and so 
zealously did our fathers maintain the letter, as well as tlie 
spiiit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in 
Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the 
week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday. 

It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to 
laxity ; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of prim- 
itive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty j^ears 
hence, in exploring his garret rubbish, chance to cast his 
eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn, 
that, even now, the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of 
New England, with an almost Judaical severity. 

On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent. 
The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro 
to complete the lagging business of the week. The good 
aiothers, like Burns' matron, are plying their needles, 
making " auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;" while 
the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national descriptive 
term,) are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and 
mops, to make all tidy for the Sabbath. 

As the day declines, the hum of labour dies away, and, 
after the sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well- 
ordered household, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village 
street. It cannot be denied, that even the most scriptu- 
ral, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations, 
anticipate their usual bed-time. The obvious inference 
fiom this fact is skilfully avoided by certain ingenious 
reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was originally 



* Tliis description is executed with admirable truth and humour ; 
yet it ha.^, we fear, in these times of disregard to the sacredness of the 
institution, a slight tendency to make the ancient strict observance of 
lie 5abbath appear somevi-hat ridiculous. It is net to be regretted, that 
the austprity and gloom, which pervaded the character of the Puritans, 
nas entn-elj"^ disappeared ; — but it is to be regretted, that so much, whicif 
was truly reiigious, should have fled along with it. — Ed 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 191 

SO organized, as to require an extra quantity of sleep on 
every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious t-o 
inquire, how this pecuharity was adjusted, when the first 
day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday. 

The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed 
day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, 
an;l, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the 
cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would 
seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going 
bell, tbe old and young issue from their habitations, and, 
with solemn demeanor, bend their measured steps to the 
meeting-house ; — the families of the minister, the squire, 
tlie doctor, the merchants, the modest gentry of the vil- 
lage, and the mechanic and labourer, all arraytJ in 
(heir best, all meeting on even ground, and all with that 
consciousness of independence and equality, which breaks 
t'own the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from ser- 
\ility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is 
reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice ; and if, perchance, 
nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter — 
•' My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready 
reproof. 

Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once 
chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the 
wit of a neighbour, and heard him allege, in a half-depre- 
cating, half-laughing voice, " The squire is so droll, that a 
body must laugh, though it be Sabbath-day." 

The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse 
vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walk- 
ing di.-,tance, — that is to say, in ourridmg community, half 
mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who 
love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to 
r;(>e the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well- 
hied, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice 
white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, fans and para- 
■sols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles, 
blue coats, and yellow buttons. The whole communitj 
meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the 
common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society, — 
a luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been sub- 
dued, — he may be seen stealing along the margin of soma 



192 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

little brook, far away from the condemning observatio 
and troublesome admonitions of his fellows. 

Towards the close of the day, or (to borrow a phrase d&= 
scriptive of his feelings, who first used it) "when the Sab 
bath begins to abate" the children cluster about the win- 
dows. Their eyes wander from their catechisms to the 
western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sun 
wo'jld never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink be- 
hind the mountain ; and, while his last ray still lingers on 
the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the 
ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The \"illage 
belle arrays herself for her twilight walk ; the boys gather 
on '•' the green ;" the lads and girls throng to the '* singing 
school ;" while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting 
her expected suitor; and all enter upon the pleasures of 
the evening with as keen a reUsh as if the day had been a 
preparatory penance. 



JDescriptian of the Capture of a Whale. — Coopes. 

The cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foam 
that were breaking over the tops of the billows within a 
few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud 

to his men — 

" Pull a stroke or two ; away with her into dark 
water." 

The drop of the oars resembled the movements of a nice 
machine, and the light boat skimmed along the water like 
a duck, that approaches to the very brink of some imminent 
danger, and then avoids it at the most critical moment, ap- 
parently without an effort. While this necessary move- 
ment was making, Barnstable arose., and surveyed the cliifi 
with keen eyes, and then, turning once more in disappoint- 
ment from his search, he said — 

'■ Pull more from the land, and let I»er run down, at an 
easy stroke, to the schooner. Keep .i ^jokout at the clif&, 
boys ; it is possible that they are stowed in some of the 
holes in the rocks, for it's no daylight business the) 
are on." 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 193 

The order was promptly obeyed, and they had glided 
along for near a mile in this manner, in the most profound 
silence, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a heavy 
rush of air, and a dash of water, seemingly at no great dis- 
tance from them. 

" By heaven ! Tom," cried Barnstable, starting, " there 
is the blow of a whale." 

" Ay, ay, sir," returned the cockswain, with undis- 
turbed composure ; " here is his spout, not half a mile 
to seaward ; the easterly gale has driven the creater to 
leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water. 
He's been sleeping, while he should have been working to 
windward !" 

" The fellow takes it coolly, too ! he's in no hurry to get 
an offing." 

" I rather conclude, sir," said the cockswain, rolling 
over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his 
little sunken eyes began to twinkle with ' pleasure at the 
sight, " the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and don't 
know which way to head, to take himself back into blue 
water." 

" 'Tis a fin-back !" exclaimed the lieutenant j " he will 
soon make head-way, and be off." 

" No, sir, 'tis a right whale," answered Tom ; " I saw 
his 'spout ; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a 
Christian would wish to look at. He's a raal oil-butt, that 
fellow !" 

Barnstable laughed, turned hijTiself away from the tempt- 
ing sight, and tried to look at the cliffs ; and then uncon- 
sciously bent his eyes again on the sluggish animal, who 
was throwing his huge carcass at times for many feet from 
the water, in idle gambols. The temptation for sport, and 
the recollection of his early habits, at length prevailed over 
his anxiety in behalt of his friends, and the young officer 
iuquifed of his cockswain — 

" Is there any whale-line in the boat to make fa^'. to that 
harpoon which you bear about with you in fair weather or 
foul ?" 

•' I never trust the boat from the schooner without part 
of a shot, sir," returned the cockswain ; " there is some- 
thing nateral in the sight of a tub to my old eyes." 
17 



194 COMMON-PLACE BOOK 3F PROSE. 

Barnstable looked at his watch, and again at the cli3*3, 
when he exclaimed in joyous tones — 

" Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems nothing 
better to be done ; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at tha 
impudent rascal." 

Trie men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain 
suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while 
the whale-boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal. 
Daring the few minutes they were priling tow^ards their 
game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the 
stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows 
of the boat, where he made such preparaticn to strike the 
whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about 
half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, 
who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place of 
the rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if neces- 
sary, the boat might be whirled round when not ad- 
vancing. 

Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster 
of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throw- 
ing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, oc- 
casionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with grace- 
ful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within 
a few hundred feet of him, w^hen he suddenly cast his head 
downwards, and, without an apparent effort, i-eared his im- 
mense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail 
violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded 
like the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, 
poising his harpoon, ready for the blow ; but, when he 
beheld the creature assume this formidable attitude, he 
waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to 
hi^ men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen 
rested "a few moments, while the whale struck several 
blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which 
re-eclioed along the clitls, like the hollow reports of so 
many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his territie 
strength, the monster sunk again into his native element 
and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers. 

*' Which way did he head, Tom ?" cried Barnstable, the 
moment the whale was out of sight. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. 195 

•* Pretty much up and down, sir," returned the cock- 
swam, whose eye was gradually brightening with the ex 
citement of the sport; "he'll soon run his nose against 
the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and will be 
glad to get another snuff of pure air ; send her a few fath- 
oins to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of 
bii track." 

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved 
true, for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and 
another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal 
rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell 
on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that, which 
is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time,, 
into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale 
rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts. 

His slightest movements were closely watched by Barn- 
stable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a state of 
comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to 
ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes 
sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, 
with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was 
at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of 
the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his 
harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him 
with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their 
foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted 
with singular earnestness — 

" Starn all !" 

" Stern all !" echoed Barnstable ; when the obedient 
seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward 
dii-ection, beyond the reach of any blow from their formi- 
dable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated 
no such resistance : ignorant of his own power, and of the 
insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. 
One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of 
the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a vi- 
olence that threw the sea around him into increased com- 
motion, and then disappeared, with the quickness of light- 
rung, amid a cloud of foam 

" Snub him !" shouted Birnstable ; " hold on, Tom ; he 
rises already." 



196 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

" Ay, ay, nr," replied the composed cockswaiu, seizing 
the line which was runiiing out of the boat with a velocity 
that rendered such a manceuvre rather hazardous, and caus- 
ing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead, 
that was placed in the hows of the boat for that purpose. 
Presently the line stretched forward, and, rising to the sur- 
face with tremulous %ibraLions, it indicated the direction 
in which the animal might be expected to re-appear. Barn- 
stable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point, be- 
fore the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to the 
surface, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in his 
sports, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way, 
with prodigious velocity, along their surface. The boat was 
dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billows 
with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury 
the slight fabric in the ocean. "VThen long Tom beheld 
his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed 
with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked 
with the deep red of blood, and cried — 

" Ay, I've touched the fellow's life ! It must be more 
than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching 
the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean I" 

" I believe you have saved j-ourself the trouble of using 
the bayonet you have rigged for a lance," said his com- 
mander, who entered into the sport with all the ardour of 
one, whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits ; 
'•' feel your line. Master Cotfin : can we haul alongside of 
our enemy ? I like not the course he is steering, as he 
tows us from the schooner." 

" 'Tis the creater's way, sir," said the cockswain ; " you 
know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, 
the same as a man ; but lay hold, boys, and let us haul up 
to him " 

The seamen now seized their whale-line, and slowb. 
drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the firh, 
whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak 
with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped run- 
uing, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suf- 
fering the agony of death. 

" Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom ?" cried Barn 
stable : " a few ^eis from vour bavonet would do it." 



COMMCJSi-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 1 97 

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool dis- 
cretion, and replied to this interrogatory — 

" No, sir, no — he's going into his flurry ; there's no oc- 
casion for disgra ^ng ourselves by using a soldier's weapon 
in taking a wha £. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater's 
in his flurry !" 

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly 
obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off" to a distance, leav- 
ing to the animal a clear space while under its dying ago- 
nies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster 
threw its tail on high as when in sport, but its blows were 
trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view 
by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. 
The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd 
of bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would 
have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in 
deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the 
view. Gradually these effects subsided, and, when the dis- 
coloured water again settled down to the long and regular 
swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yield- 
ing passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous 
black mass rolled to one side, and when the white and glis- 
tening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well 
knew that their victory was achieved. 



Lake George. — Club-Room. 

" It was a still 
And calmy bay, on the one side sheltered 
With the brode sliado'// of an hoarie hill ; 
On the other side an high rock toured still." 

*************** 
" Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim 
Along the shore, as swift as glaunce of eye, 
A little gondelay, bedecked trim, 
With boughs and arbours woven cunningly, 
That like a little forest seemed outwardly ; 
And therein sat a lady fresh and faire." 

Faerie Qckene. 

If any of my readers have ever visited these transparent 
waters, and have wound their way among the thousand 
little woody islands which sprinkle their surface from Fori 
17* 



I9S COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

G&jrge to the Falls nf Ticonderoga, they may have remarg. 
ed, just beyond Bolton, at the bottom of a beautiful inlet, 
or bay, formed by two craggy promontories of the western 
shore, a small dwelling-house, upon which the fingers of 
Time seem to have wrought more ruinously than man, in 
the pride of his dominion, is accustomed to allow them. It 
stands lone and desolate. Storms have shattered its roof, 
and wild shrubs hare already sprung up '" dark profusion 
over its avenues ; while the white- columned portico, whicb 
was wont to look so cheering to the eye of the passenger, 
has put on the damp and mouldering garment of decay. 

Some years ago business led me to the Canadian frontier 
b}- that route. I travelled alone in a light wagon. A part 
of the road, which was extremely rugged, stretched along 
the bold shore of the lake ; sometimes winding up the 
craggy side of the mountain, and sometimes running close 
to the precipice, which, from the height of two or three 
hundred feet, flung its huge and dusky shadow into the 
mirror beneath. As I was anxious to reach my inn before 
night-fallj and blue mists were already beginning to gather 
upon the lake, I quickened the pace of my horse whereve'- 
the smoothness of the road would permit. I had just pass- 
ed a young foot-traveller, and was turning a sharp corner 
formed by a rock shelving out of the mountain's side, when 
my horse started suddenly, and, carrying the wheel of my 
wagon over a fallen fragment, dashed me to the ground. I 
fell near the edge of the cliff, where its surface was already 
considerably inclined. I seized upon a small projection of 
the rock. It loosened, and gave way under my grasp. I 
slipped downward, and found not even a bramble within 
reach, when I felt myself suddenly stayed by I knew not 
what. It was the young man 1 had just passed, who 
sprang forward, and, not without imminent hazard of fol- 
lowing me in my fall, caught the skirt of my coat at the 
instant I was rolling over the brink. Supporting himself 
by the frail bough of a dwarf-oak which grew a little abovCj 
he held me hanging by a thread over " the dark valley of 
the shadow of death." The fragment which I had loos- 
ened fell, and the sullen splash of the water which re- 
ceived it just reached my ear. From that moment I be 
came insensible. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 199 

On recovery I found myself on a bed. Three or four 
luces were bending over me with expressions of the deep- 
est concern, and a beautiful girl was bathing my temples. 
1 looked her my fnanks — ^it was all I could. Presently 
the door opened, and a voice anxiously asked — " How is 
he ? — will he live ?" " Hush !" she replied, in a low whis- 
per, " He is well enough to hear you." It was my young 
preserver, who entered, and brought with him the doctor 
of the neighbouring village. It were tedious to detail all 
the symptoms of inward injury, and prognostics of impend- 
ing fever, which were found about me by this rustic sou 
of jEsculapius. Let it suffice that my limbs were pro- 
nounced unbroken, though badly bruised' — that I submit- 
ted quietly to remedies, which I had not strength to resist 
— in short, that I was well enough in a few days, in spite 
of all circumstance of delay, to enjoy the society of the 
kind friends who attended me, and the beauties of their 
romantic residence. 

The name of my host was Burton — a robust and well- 
looking man, just entering life's downward path. He was 
by birth an Englishman, and had been a soldier in his 
youth — served in America during our revolutionary war — 
was taken prisoner, with many of his countrymen, at Ti- 
conderoga — fell in love with a young woman in that neigh- 
bourhood, whom he married soon after the declaration of 
peace — and, having acquired a competent fortune in mer- 
chandise, hastened to indulge an Englishman's taste for 
rural pursuits in this delightful spot. 

Mary Burton, his only daughter, was a beautiful girl just 
turned of eighteen ; adorned with all the sensibilities of 
her sex ; and, if she wanted the accomplishments of a fine 
lady, she had that, which more than compensates for them 
all — uniform simplicity and gayety of heart. It was she 
whom I first discovered among the group standing about 
me, watching with tender anxiety the earliest symptoms 
of returning life 

But my readers would perhaps know something of my 
youthful preserver. He was not of the Burton family, 
though constantly with them. His name was Arthur Mur- 
ray. Of good parentage and liberal attainments, a boyislf 
romance first led him to that neighbourhood ; for his cod 



200 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

tinuance there, you have perhaps ah^eady guessed thdl 
Bomething might be attributed to the charms of Mary Bui 
ton. The old folks looked with pleasure on the growing 
attachment between them, and had recently granted a glad 
consent to their union. 

The only other inmates of the parlour were two rosj'-. 
cheeked boys, many years younger, yet constant compan- 
ions of the kind-hearted Arthur. Nor let .me exclude from 
the family roll. Rover, the large Newfoundland dog, who 
was allowed to participate in most of the family pleasures. 

It was an uncommonly happy circle. Separated from 
the rest of mankind — unsullied by the cold, selfish pleasures 
of the city — the absorbing cares of avarice and pride — 
home was their world ; — they indulged not a Avish beyond 
" the happy valley," but lived peaceful and contented, 
with all the sympathies of life wrapped up in the little 
compass of a few loving hearts. If this be seclusion, who 
would exchange it for the refined vanities of fashion — the 
turmoils of interest and ambition — the modish sensibilities 
which wear the semblance of feeling, and obliterate the 
feeling itself! 

And then the scenery about them was so exquisitely 
touching ! In the freshness of the dawn, I used to delight, 
with Rover only by my side, to climb the neighbouring 
hill, and catch the first ruddy tint that gleamed upon the 
lake — and at noon to stretch myself in some shady recess, 
and watch the white sail, now lost behind the bold head- 
land, now gliding among the trees, and now cuttinsc the 
clear expanse of water — or, in the stillness of night, broken 
only by the moan of the sad whip-poor-will, and the fret 
of waters, to muse upon the wildness of the scene, and 
commune with unearthly forms, which seemed to be fii'ting 
in the moonbeam ; — but, most of all, I delighted, on a fine 
afternoon, to join the little family party, in Arthur's pleas- 
ure-boat, sailing from island to island, each beauty present- 
ing itself in ever new and varying lights, and the sweet, 
artless song of Mary, who seemed to be the fairy spirit of 
the lake, warbling in my ear. And I would no% even 
now, mingled as my recollections are with melancholy and 
sorrow, I would not, for any earthly good, suffer the mem- 
ory of this delicious period to fade upon the tablet of my 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 201 

heart. E was one of the few, few green and sunny spots, 
which he scattered over the dark waste of time. 

But the day at length arrived, when the imperious calls 
of business — that perpetual intruder on the poetry of life — 
must tear me from the friends and scenes which 1 so dear- 
}y loved. I had already lingered much longer on the hos- 
pitality of the Burtons than necessity required ; and I 
know not when I should have left them, had I waited till 
either my own inclination, or their friendly importunities, 
had ceased. I bade adieu — but not without a willing prom- 
ise to visit them once more on my return. 

About three weeks elapsed, i had despatched my busi- 
ness, and was returning homeward light-hearted and free, 
when, after toiling up a long and dusty hill, I caught sight 
again, at a few miles' distance, of the green, refreshing val- 
ley, and the pure crystal within it. My pulse beat high 
with expectation. My horse had not forgotten the hospitality 
of the Burtons, and we rapidly approached these well-re- 
membered scenes. As I descended the last hill, and some 
time before I reached the house. Rover came bounding 
along, with every demonstration of joy, to welcome my re- 
turn. Upon entering, the domestics, who were making 
ready their evening repast, informed me, that the whole 
family had gone upon the water in Arthur's pleasure- 
boat. 

Taking Rover with me, I strayed down to the neigh 
bourhood of their landing-place, and seated myself on a 
cliff, which overlooked the lake. The waters of Lake 
George are peculiarly transparent. I have often looked 
out of a boat upon its pebbly bed, and thought I might 
easily have waded to the shore, when in truth my oar's 
length could not reach the bottom. It was from this singular 
beauty, as well as the tout ensemble of witching scenery 
about it, that the Indians, who formerly inhabited the adja- 
cent territories, believed the bosom of the lake to be the 
alode of the Great Spirit ; and the French priests, who 
came to convert them, infected with the superstition of the 
place, named it the Holy Water ; and, either imagining it 
to be uncommonly pure, or else believing it to be really 
endowed with a peculiar sanctity, used to send vessels fill- 
ed with it to their native country, to be used in the sacred 



202 COMMON-PLACE UOOK OF PROSE. 

rites of their church. This afternoon was remarkablj 
calm and cloudless. The opposite shore hung in the wa- 
ter with such truth and life of expression, that it looked 
like the scenery of another world, calmer and more lovely 
than our own. 

Presently, however, a breeze sprung from the east. Tho 
smooth surface just curled beneath its kiss ; and, in a short 
time, I observed the full sail of the pleasure-boat emeigiug 
at no great distance from behind a little knoll, that had 
concealed it. It was shaping its homeward course. The 
sun was fast declining towards the western mountain — upon 
whose summit was piled a thick mass of snowy clouds. 
Every thing promised a glorious sunset. 

I sat wrapped in the dream of expectation, measuring 
the long ripple which the boat left upon the lake, and think- 
ing, within myself, whether they could reach home before 
dusk. I turned towards the sun, to judge from his height 
how many minutes the light of day had yet to live. I wa? 
immediately struck by the uncommon richness of the white 
fleece, which was rolling itself, volume upon volume, into 
a thousand wild, fantastic shapes. At the same moment, a 
small black cloud seemed suddenly to grow out of the moun- 
tain. As it rose, it swelled, and spread itself, like a pall, 
over the rich mass of vapours, effacing one by one the 
beauties of the gorgeous spectacle. The wind freshened 
from the east — but the thunder-cloud still steered against 
it, and sailed on, in sullen majesty, like some dusky spirit, 
regardless of the opposing element. The sun was obscured, 
and a cold shade thrown over the lake. The leaves rustled 
through the forest with a noise like the long roll of the 
ocean on some distant beach, and a dull, low moaning seem- 
ed to move upon the waters. All nature portended one of 
those tremendous storms, which there, in seasons of the 
profoundest calm, pour in a moment out of the hollows of 
the surrounding mountains. I looked back anxiously for 
my friends. Their bark had neared the bay, and was still 
gallantly cleaving the waves. I thought I could distin- 
guish Arthur at the helm, proudly steering his little treas- 
ure, fearful but for those whom he loved dearer than life. 
I waved my handkerchief, and 't was answered. . Rover 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 203 

stood just Delovv lue, snuffing the air, and wagging his tail 
in silent expectation. 

The heavens were now completely overcast — the thun- 
ders rolled heavily, nearer and nearer, and big round drops 
splashed here and there upon the water. Presently there 
was a blinding flash, and an explosion shaking the cliff to 
its very root. The long, broken peal, that followed, rever- 
berated from crag to crag, and died away in the far dis- 
tance. There was a momentary pause ; — the gates of 
heaven were loosed, and the water fell in sheets, as if 
another lake were emptying itself from the sky. I could 
just discern the little bark through the thick rain. In spite 
of the fury of the storm, it gained its way, and had already 
reached the entrance to its harbour. A few moments 
more, and it was safe. While I was yet looking at it, a 
sudden gust of wind rushed out of the west. The boat 
stopped for an instant, as if fixed to the spot — and then, with 
a slight tremulous motion, settled into the waves. 

Rover, who sat watching its progress from a point be- 
neath, set up a wild howl, and dashed into the water. I 
instinctively followed, leaping from point to point — slipping 
among the rocks — catching at weeds and briers, which 
sprang out of the crevices — nor was it till I stood upon the 
very margin of the lake, that I reflected on the rashness 
of my design ; — I was wholly unable to swim. Rover, 
however, bore him stoutly from the shore, and had almost 
reached the spot ; but not a trace of the vessel could be 
seen. The torrents of rain ceased, and I could now clearly 
descry a human figure emerging from the waves — it was 
Arthur — and he dragged after him, from the bottom, the 
dear object, who clung to him when they sunk. Ro- 
ver now reached them, and, with all the sagacity of his 
tribe, seizing the long tresses of Mary in his mouth, so as 
to lift her head out of the water, bore her triumphantly to- 
ward the shore. Arthur swam by her side. I could only 
wait for them on the shore. They were now within a few 
yards of land, when Arthur's strength began to fail. Poor 
Arthur sunk. He rose again — made a few feeble strokes 
■ — and the waters again covered him ; — he rose — endeav- 
aured to speak, cast a mournful look upon Mary — foldea 



204 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSK. 

his arms — and sunk, — forever. A few noiseless bubbles 
struggled to the surface, and his spirit mingled with the 
air. 

Those who have stood by the bed-side of a dying brother, 
and watched the last faint struggle with death, — the cold 
damps gathering upon the brow — the fixing eye — the con- 
vulsive gasp — without the power to repress a single groan,— 
have felt all that was labouring in my heart. He was a 
fellow being — a friend — my benefactor — and he sunk w' th- 
in a few feet of me into a watery grave. 

But it was no time to indulge the selfishness of sovr^w. 
Rover had come to land, with the body of his mistress pa^e 
and cold. I took it up, and bore it to the house. The ser- 
vants were in a state of distraction ; it was with difficulty 
I could persuade them to use necessary means for the re- 
covery of the unfortunate Mary. After much labour, she 
began to breathe, and a few deep groans marked the un- 
willingness with which life returned to its deserted tene- 
ment. Good God, thought 1, what a cruelty do I not com- 
mit in restoring this wretched maid to a desolate existence ! 
Surely she had better, far better, die — and sleep quietly 
in her grave, than revive to see a few more miserable 
years, parentless — brotherless — alone — not a friend on 
earth to alleviate the sorrows of life. I almost repented 
what I had dene. Yet what right had I to sit in judgment 
on the mysteries of Providence ? It has pleased God to in 
terpose miraculously for her preservation : — let not man 
attempt to thwart his just, inscrutable designs ! 

We redoubhid our efforts. In a little time she seemed 
partially to have recovered her senses. She looked wildly 
round, and, extending her feeble hand towards mine, cried, 
with a faint voice, " Arthur !" I pressed her hand — my 
heart was too full to speak. Alas ! she did not know the touch 
— but, fixing her glazed eye upon me, repeated the name 
of Arthur. " It is not Arthur," said I — -and the tears gush- 
ed as I spoke. " Oh where is he P^where are they all ?" — 
and then, as if the memory of what had passed had suddenly 
flashed upon her mind, she shrieked out, and fell senseless 
away. I could restrain my feelings no longer, but, lea\ ing 
her in the charge of the weeping domestics, hurried oni 
of the room 



C*)MMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 205 

The storm, which had wreaked its fury, was dissipated 
as suddenly as it arose. I determined to walk abroad, and 
see if I could calm the violence of my feelings in the still 
moonlight. I passed through the parlour. There the re- 
past was spread, and the chairs were standing round the 
hospitable board, for those who could never fill them again. 
I strayed down to the margin of the lake. The faithful 
Rover was still swimming about, and whining piteously 
over the fatal spot. Wherever I went, at every turn, some- 
thing arose to refresh the horror of the =cene. 

Mary recovered to linger a few years a miserable ma- 
niac ; — 

" Though health and bloom returned, the delicate chain 
Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again." 

She was sensible, however, a few moments before she died 
— thanked the kind domestics, who had never left her — ■ 
and begged to be buried at the bottom of the garden, be- 
neath an arbour which Arthur had reared. Her injunction 
was obeyed — and a small tombstone may yet be found there 
under the long grass, bearing this simple inscription— 

" Poor JVIary Burton rests beneath this stone ; 
God sufferetii not his saints to live alone." 



Hypochondriasis and its Remedies. — Rush. 

The extremes of low and high spirits, which occur in 
the same person at different times, are happily illustrat- 
ed by the following case : A physician in one of the cities 
of Italy was once consulted by a gentleman, who was much 
distressed by a paroxysm of this intermitting state of hy- 
pochondriasm. He advised him to seek relief in convivial 
company, and recommended him in particular to find out 
a gentleman of the name of Cardini, who kept all the ta- 
bles in the city, to which he was occasionally invited, in a 
rGa^ of laughter. " Alas ! sir," said the patient, with a 
heav> sigh, " I am that Cardini." Many such characters, 
alternately marked by high and low spirits, are to be f( wni 
in all the c'<ies in the world. 
18 



206 COMxMG^-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

But there are sometimes flashes of apparent cheerfulness 
and even of mirth, in the intervals of this disease, which 
are accompanied with latent depression of mind. This ap- 
pears to have been the case in Cowper, who knew all itJ 
symptoms by sad experience. Hence, in one of his lei 
ters to Mr. Hayley, he says, " I am cheerful upon paper, 
but the most distressed of all creatures." It was probably 
in one of these opposite states of mind, that he wrote his 
humorous ballad of John Gilpin. 

In proportion as the hypochondriac disease advances, the 
symptoms of the hysteria, which are j^^^enerally combined 
with it in its first stage, disappear, and all the systems in 
which the disease is seated acquire an uniformly torpid or 
irritable state. The remissions and intermissions which 
have been described cease, and even the transient blaze 
of cheerfulness, which now and then escapes from a heart 
smothered with anguish, is seen no more. The distress 
now becomes constant. " Clouds return after every rain." 
Not a ray of comfort glimmers upon the soul in any of the 
prospects or retrospects of life. " All is now darkness 
without and within." These poignant words were once 
uttered by a patient of mine with peculiar emphasis, while 
labouring under this stage of the disease. Neither nature 
nor art now possess a single beautj', nor music or poetry 
a single charm. The two latter often give pain, and some- 
times offence. In vain do love and friendship, and domes 
tic affection, offer sympathy or relief to the mind in this 
awful situation. Even the consolations of religion are re- 
jected, or heard with silence and indifference. Night no 
longer affords a respite from misery. It is passed in dis- 
tracting wakefulness, or in dreams more terrible than wak- 
ing thoughts ; nor does the light of the sun chase away a 
single distressing idea '' I rise in the morning," saj-s Cow- 
per, in a letter to Mr. Hayley, '•' like an infernal frog out of 
A-cheroix, covered with the ooze and mud of melancholy." 
No change of place is wished for, that promises any allevi- 
ation of suffering. " Could I be translated to paradise," 
Bays the same elegant historian of his own sorrows, in a 
letter to Lady Hesketh, " unless I could leave my body be- 
hind me. my melaschoiy would cleave to me theie." 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 20? 

Can any thing be anticipated more dreadful than univer- 
sal madness ? and yet I once attended a lady in this city, 
whose sufferings from low spirits were of such a nature, 
that she ardently wished she might lose her reason, in ordei 
thereby to be relieved from the horror of her thoughts. 
This state of mind was not new in this disease SoAkst-rj^ne 
has described it in the following lines, in his inimitable lua- 
tcry of all the forms of derangement, in the tragedy of 
Ktng Lear. They are as truly philosophical as they are 
poetical. 



Better I were distract ; 



So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, 
And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose 
The knowledge of themselves " 

A pleasant season, a fine day, and even the morning sun, 
often suspend the disease. Cowper bears witness to the 
truth of this remark, in one of his letters to Mr. Hayley. 
" 1 rise," says he, " cheerless and distressed, and brighten 
as the sun goes on." 

Dr. Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, delivers tlie 
following direction for its cure : " Be not idle ; be not sol- 
itary." Dr. Johnson has improved this advice by the fol- 
lowing commentary upon it : " When you are idle be not 
solitary ; and when you are solitary be not idle." The 
ilhi-strious Spinola, upon hearing of the death of a friend, 
mqiiired of what disease he died. " Of having nothing to 
do," said the person who mentioned it. " Enough," said 
Spinola, " to kill a general." Not only the want of em- 
ployment, but the want of care, often increases as well as 
brings on this diseass. 

Concerts, evening parties, and the society of the ladies, to 
gentlemen affected with this disease, have been useful. Of 
the efficacy of the last, Mn Green has happily said, 

" With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien, 
They excommunicate tlie spleen." 

Those amusements should be preferred which, while 
ihey interest the mind, afford exercise to the body. 
The chase, shooting, playing at quoits, are all useful fof 
this purpose. The words of the poet, Mr. Green, upon 



208 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

this subject, deserve to be committed to memory b> a, 
physicians : 

" To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, 
Some recommend the bowlilig-greeii j 
Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ; 
Fling but a stone — the giant dies." 

Chess, checkers, cards, and even push-pin, should be pre- 
ferred to idleness, when the weather forbids exercise in 
the open air. The theatre has often been resorted to, ro 
remove fats of lov/ spirits ; and it is a singular fact, that a 
tragedy oftener dissipates them than a comedy. The rem- 
edy, though distressing to persons with healthy minds, is 
like the temperature of cold water to persons benumbed 
with frost ; it is exactly proportioned to the excitability of 
heir minds, and it not only abstracts their attention from 
themselves, but even revives their spirits. Mirth, or even 
cheerfulness, when employed as remedies in low spirits, 
are like hot water to a frozen limb. They are dispropor- 
tioned to the excitability of the mind, and, instead of ele- 
vating, never fail to increase its depression, or to irritate it. 
Cowper could not bear to hear his humorous story of Jolin 
Gilpin read to him in his paroxysms of this disease. It was 
to his heavy heart what Solomon happily compares to the 
conflict produced by pouring vinegar upon nitre, or, in other 
words, upon an alkaline salt. 

Certain objects distinguished for their beauty or grandeur 
often afford relief in this disease. Cowper experienced a 
transient elevation of spirits from contemplating the ocean 
from the house of his friend Mr. Hayley ; and the unfor- 
tunate Mrs. Robinson soothed the gloom of her mind, by 
viewing the dashing of the waves of the same sublime ob- 
ject, in the light of the moon, at Brighton. Certain ani- 
mals suspend the anguish of mind of this disease, by their 
innocence, ingenuity or sports. Cowper sometimes fouiiil 
relief in playing with three tame hares, and in observing 
a number of leeches to rise and fall in a glass with the 
changes of the •^reather. The poet says, — 

"La <hafldbswell. Monkeys have been 
Extrtr.ne good doctors for the spleen 
And kitten — if the humour hit — 
Has harlequin'd away the fit " 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 20S 

The famous Luther was cheered under his fits of low 
spirits, by hstening to the prattle, and observing the sports 
and innocent countenances, of young children. The tone 
of their voices is probably a source of a part of the relief 
derived from their company. Cowper was always exhila- 
rated by conversing with Mr. Hayley's son, only because 
he was pleased with the soft and musical tones of his voice. 

Music has often afforded great relief in this disease. 
J uther, who was sorely afflicted with it, has left the fol- 
lowing testimony in favour of the art : " Next to Theolo- 
gy, I give the highest place to music, for thereby all anger 
is forgotten ; the devil, also melancholy, and many tribula- 
tions and evil thoughts are driven away." For the same 
reason that tragedies afford more relief than comedies, 
plaintive tunes are more useful than such as are of a 
sprightly nature. I attended a citizen of Philadelphia oc- 
casionally in paroxysms of this disease, who informed me 
that he was cured of one of them, by hearing the Old 
Hundred psalm tune sung in a country church. His dis- 
order, he said, instantly !'eft him in a flood of tears. 
Dr Cardan always felt a suspension of the anguish of his 
mind from the same cause ; and Cowper tells his friend, in 
one of his letters, that he was " relieved as soon as his 
troubles gushed from his eyes." 



Climate and Scenery of JSTew England. — Tudor. 

The position of our continent, and the course of the 
winds, will always give us an unequal climate, and one 
abounding in contrasts. In the latitude of 508, on the north- 
west coast of America, the weather is milder even than in 
the same parallel in Europe ; — the wind, three quarters of 
the year, comes off the Pacific : in the same latitude on 
the eastern side, the country is hardly worth inhabiting, 
under the dreary length of cold, produced by the succes- 
sion of winds across a frozen continent. The wind and the 
pun, too, often carry on the contest here, which they exert- 
ed on the poor traveller in the fable ; and we are in doubt 
to which v/e shall yield. The changes that cultivation and 
18* 



210 COMxMOiV-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

planetary influence, if there be such a thing, can create 
are very gradual. It seems to be a general opinion, thai 
the cold is more broken now. The totals of heat and cold 
may be nearly the same as they were fifty years ago. The 
winters particularly have commenced later. The autumn 
is warmer and the spring colder. We are still subject to 
the same caprices ; a flight of snow in May, a frost in 
June, and sometimes in every month in the year ; and 
^olus indulges his servants in stranger freaks and extrav- 
agances here than elsewhere ; yet the severe cold seldom 
sets in before January; the snow is less and later, and, on 
the sea coast, does not, on an average, afford more than a 
month's sleighing. 

These contrasts in our climate occasion some very pic- 
turesque effects, — some that would be considered phenom- 
ena by persons unaccustomed to them. It blends together 
the circumstances of very distant regions in Europe. Thus, 
when the earth lies buried in a deep covering of snow, in 
Europe, the clime is so far to the north, that the sun rises 
but little above the horizon, and his daily visit is a very 
short one ; — his feeble 7 iys hardly illumine a chilly sky, 
that harmonizes with the dreary waste it covers : but here, 
the same surface reflec ,s a dazzling brilliancy from rays 
that strike at the same angle , at which they do the dome 
of St. Peter's. The plains of Siberia and the Campagna 
di Roma are here combined ; — we have the snow of the 
one and the sun of the other at the same period. While 
his rays in the month of March are expanding the flowers 
and blossoms at Albano and Tivoli, they are here falling on 
a wide, uninterrupted covering of snow, — producing a 
dazzling brilliancy that is almost insupportable. A moon- 
light at this season is equally remarkable, and its effects 
can be more easily endured. Our moon is nearly the same 
with that moon of Naples, which Carracioli told the king 
of England was " superior to his majestj^'s sun." When 
this surface of spotless snow is shone upon by this moon at 
its full, and reflects back its beams, the light indeed is not 
that of day, but it takes away all appearance of night ; — the 
?eitch and the spectre would shrink from its exposure : 

" It is not night , — 'tis but the daylight sick ; 
It loolcs a little paier " 



COMMOxV-PLACE BOOK OF pnOSE. 211 

Oa the sea coast, the winters are milder, but the obnox- 
ious east winds are more severely felt in the spring, than 
thev are in the interior. The whole coast ol Massachu- 
setts Bay is remarkably exposed to their influence Some 
compensation, however, is derived for their harshivess and 
virulence in the spring, by their refreshing and salutary 
breezes in the summer, when they frequently allay the 
sultry heat, and prevent it from becoming oppressive. Al- 
though a district favourably situated will enjoy an average 
of climate two or three degrees better than those in its 
neighbourhood, yet, generally, the progress of the climate is 
pretty regular as you follow the coast of the United States 
from north-east to south-west. I am induced to think, that 
our great rivers have some connexion with the gradations 
of climate ; that every large river you pass makes a dif- 
ference of two or three degrees in the averages of the 
thermometer. The position of mountains will affect the 
climate essentially ; but these rivers, whose course up- 
wards is no>-theriy, will still, in general, be lines of de- 
marcation. 

One of the most agreeable peculiarities in our climate, 
is a period in the autumn called the Indian Summer. It 
happens in October, commencing a few days earlier or later, 
as the season may be. The temperature is delightful, and 
the weather differing in its character from that of any othei 
season. The air is filled with a slight haze, like smoke, which 
some suppose it to be ; the wind is south-west, and there 
is a vernal softness in the atmosphere ; yet the different alti- 
tude of the sun from what it has in the summer, makes it, in 
other respects, very unlike that season. This singular oc- 
currence in our climate seems to be to summer, what a 
vivid recollection of past joys is to the reality. The In- 
dians have some pleasing superstitions respecting it. " They 
believe it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately 
from the court of their great and benevolent god Cautan- 
towwit, or the south-western god, the god that is superioi 
to all other beings, who sends them every blessing which 
they enjoy, and to whom the souls of their fathers go after 
their decease." 

In connexion with our climate, the appearance of our 
atmosphere may be considered. The lover of picturesaua 



212 COimON-PI^iCE BOOK OF PROSE. 

beauty will find this a fruitful source of it. The fame in 
equalities will be found here, that take place in the meas 
ure of heat and cold, and an equal number of contrasts and 
varieties. We have many of those days, when a murky 
vapourishness is diJfused through the air, dimming the lus- 
tre of the sun, and producing just such tones of light and 
colour as would be marked, in the calendar of Newfound- 
land or the Hebrides, for a bright, fair day. We have 
again others, in which even the transparency and purity 
of the tropics, and all the glowing mellow hues of Greece 
and Naples are blended together, to shed a hue of para- 
dise on every object, I have already spoken of the intense 
brilliancy of a winter moonlight, when the air has a polar 
temperature ; the same brilliancy and a greater clearness are 
eften found in the month of June, and sometimes in July, 
with the warmth of the equator. There are, occasionally, in 
the summer and autumn, such magical effects of light, such 
a universal tone of colouring, that the very air seems tinged ; 
and an aspect of such harmonious splendour is thrown over 
every object, that the attention of the most indifferent is 
awakened, and the lovers of the beautiful in nature enjoy 
the most lively delight. These are the kinds of tints, which 
even the matchless pencil of Claude vainly endeavoured 
to imitate. They occur a few times every year, a little 
before sunset, under a particular state of the air and posi- 
tion of the clouds. These beautiful appearances are not 
so frequent, indeed, here, as they are at Naples ; all those 
warm and delicate colours, which we see in Neapolitan 
pictures, occur there more often ; but I have frequently 
seen the hills on the south of Boston exhibiting, towards 
sunset, the same exquisite hues, which Vesuvius more fre- 
quently presents, and which the Neapolitans, in their paint- 
ings of it, always adopt. The vivid beauty, which I no^ 
speak of, is rare and transient ; but we often enjoy the 
charms of a transparent atmosphere, where objects stand 
in bold relief, and even distant ones will present all their 
hues and angles, clear and sharp, from the deep distant sky, 
as on the shores of Greece ; and we gaze at sunset on gor- 
geous skies, where all the magnificence, that form and col- 
our can combine, is accumulated to enrapture the eye,fJid 
render description hopeless. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 2Vd 

The scenery of this country will have struck you at 
once, as very different from that of Europe. This differ- 
ence is partly intrinsic, and partly accidental, — arising out 
of the kinds and degrees of cultivation. The most obvious 
and extensive view, in which it differs, is the redundancy 
of forest. A vast forest, to a person who had never seen 
or.e, would excite almost as strong sensations, as the sigh} 
of the ocean to him who beheld it for the first time ; 
and in both cases a long continuance of the prospect be- 
comes tiresome. From some of our hills, the spectator 
looks over an expanse of woods bounded by the horizon, 
and slightly chequered by cultivation. The view is grand 
and imposing at first, but will be more agreeable, and afford 
more lasting pleasure, when the relative proportions of wood 
and open ground are reversed. The most cultivated parts 
of these States approach nearest to some of the most cov- 
ered in England, that are not an aictual forest. We have 
nothing like the Downs on your southern coast, — and fa- 
tiguing as an eternal forest may be, it is less so than those 
dreary wastes, as destitute of objects as the mountain 
swell of the ocean. We have still so much wood, that, even 
in the oldest cultivated parts of the country, it is difficult 
to find a panoramic view of any extent, where some patches 
of the native forest are not to be found. I know of but 
one exception, whjch is from the steeple of the church in 
Ipswich, in Essex, Massachusetts. This is one of the oldest 
towns ; the prospect will put you in mind of the scenery 
of your own country ; — 1 need not add, that it is a verj' 
pleasing one, and will repay you for the slight trouble of 
ascending the steeple. 

The trees, though there are too many of them, at least 
in masses, must please the eye of an European, from their 
variety and beauty, as well as novelty. The richness of 
our trees and shrubs has always excited the admiration ol 
botanists and the lovers of landscape gardening. There 
can be nothin-g nobler than the appearance of some of the 
oaks and beeches in England, and the walnuts and chest- 
nuts in France and Italy. The vast size of these spreading 
trees is only surpassed by some of our sycamores on the 
banks of the Ohio. Our oaks may sometimes be seen of 
the same size, — and the towering white pine and hemlock 



214 COM3I OX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

reach a height, that I had never seen attained by trees ii; 
Europe ; — but, for grandeur of appearance, "we must reiyj 
in the first instance, on the American elm, that has beea 
planted for ornament. Its colour, its form, and its size., 
place it much before the European elm ; it is one of our 
most majestic trees. There are many varieties of it very 
distinct, — yet not so numerous as of the oaks, walnuts and 
some others. Of the former, you know, we have between 
thirty and forty diiferent species, and a great number of 
species exist of all our principal trees. This variety, in the 
hands of taste, would be made productive of the highest 
effects in ornamental planting, of which you may find more 
specimens in your own country than in this, though onlv 
a part of our riches in this way have been transplanted by 
your gardeners. You will remark the fresh and healthy 
look of our forest, as well as fruit trees, compared with 
those of all the northern parts of Europe. The humidity 
01 that atmosphere nourishes the mosses, and a green coat- 
ing over the trunks and branches, that give the aspect of 
disease and decay. You will often observe the clean and 
smooth bark of our trees of all kinds : among the forest 
trees, particularly the walnut, maple, beech, birch, &c. will 
be entirely free from moss or rust of any kind, — and theii 
trunks form fine contrasts with the leaves. You will have 
too much of forest in this country to go in pursuit of one 
but, should you happen to visit Nashawn, one of the Eliz- 
sbeth islands, you will see the most beautiful insulated for- 
est in the United States, with less of that ragged, lank look, 
which our native forests commonly present, from the trees 
struggling with each other for the light, and running up to 
great height, with few or no branches ; but this one exhibits 
the tufted, rounded masses, which are found in the groves 
of your parks. 

[ will mention a peculiarity, which you will witness in 
autumn, that will affect a lover of landscape scenery, like 
yourself, on seeing it the first time, with surprise as well 
as delight. The rich and mellow tints of the forest, at that 
season of the year, have often furnished subjects for the 
poet and the painter in Europe; but it will hardly prepare 
you for the sights our woods exhibit. I have never seen 
a representation of them attempted in painting ; it "vouW 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 215 

probably be grotesque. Besides all the shades of brown 
and green, which you have in European trees, there are 
fhe most brilliant and glaring colours, — bright yellow, and 
scarlet for instance, — not merely on single leaves, but in 
masses of whole trees, with all their foliage thus tinged. 
I do not know that it has ever been accounted for ; it maj' 
perhaps be owing to the frosts coming earlier here than in 
Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is yet copi- 
ous, before they have begun to dry up and fall off. How- 
ever this may be, the colouring is wonderful ; the walnut 
is turned to the brightest yellow, the maple to scarlet, &c. 
Our trees put on this harlequin dress about the first of 
October. I leave to your imagination, which can never 
reach the reality, to fancy the appearance of such scenes 
as you may behold at this season. A cloudless sky, and 
transparent atmosphere, a clear blue lake, with meadows 
of light, delicate green, backed by hills and dales of those 
party-coloured, gorgeous forests, are often combined, to form 
the most enchanting views. 



First and Second Death. — Greenwood, 

The first death is the death of the body ; the quenching 
of that undiscovered spark, which warms and animates the 
human frame ; the return of our dust to the earth as it 
was ; the event which happeneth unto all men ; " the 
sentence of the Lord over all flesh." We cannot prevent 
it. Like birth, it is inevitable. Helplessly, and without 
our own will, we open our eyes at first to the light of day ; 
and then, by an equal necessity, we lie down to sleep, 
some at this hour, some at the next, on the lap of our 
mother. This death is an ordinance of God. It was 
intended for our benefit; and can do us no essential harm. 
U disturbs not the welfare of the soul ; it touches not the 
hie of the spirit. 

The second death is more awful and momentous. It is 
the death of that which the first death left alive. It is the 
death of reputation, the death of love, the death of happi- 
ness, the exile of the soul It has no connexion with tha 



216 COJOIOX-PLACE BOOK OF PJIOSE. 

6rst death, for its causes are a»^l engendered in the he ot 
the body. Unlike the first, it is a death which all men do 
not die. Unlike the first, it is a death from which there ib 
a way of escape. And yet there are more who are terri- 
fied with the first death, unimportant as it is, than thers 
are who fear the second, though it includes every wo. Ana 
almost all men attempt to fly from the first, though they 
tnow it to be impossible ; while few take pains to avoid 
the last, though it is within their ability to do so. 

The first death, then, is invested with complete power 
over all men. It withers human strength, it respects not 
human authority. Rank is not exempt from it, art cannot 
elude, riches cannot bribe, eloquence cannot soften, nor 
can even virtue overcome it. But with that secoLd and 
far more dreadful death, it is not so. There are those over 
whom it hath no power. Any one may join their number. 
There is no mystery, no hardship, in the terms of the 
blessed exemption. All may read, all may comply with 
them. They arise from the nature of the second death. 
For as nothing but vice and disobedience towards God can 
affect the life of the spirit, and invest the second death 
with its power, so it is righteousness only, and the healthful 
fruits of religion, which can defy and render it powerless. 
" In the way of righteousness there is life, and in the 
pathway thereof there is no death." So little is the first 
death considered, and so little account of it is made, in 
many parts of Scripture, that we are told, in some of its 
sublimest strains, that the believer in Jesus, the true 
Christian, " shall never die." Goodness carries with it 
the eternal principles of life, deeply engrafted into its con- 
stitution ; so that it cannot lose it, nor part with it. It is 
the good, the benevolent, the pious, and the pure, to whom 
life is promised ; and on such " the second death has no 
power." 

It the sight of men they die ; and so far there is indeed 
but one event to the righteous and the wicked. But this 
is only the first, the corporeal death ; and in all essentia] 
respects they live. 



COMMON-PLAOE BOOK OF PROSE. 217 



Posthumous Influence of the Wise and Good. — Norton. 

The relations between man and man cease not with life 
The dead leave behind them their memory, their exara^ 
pie, and the effects of their actions. Their influence sti\ 
nbides with us. Their names and characters dwell in our 
thoughts and hearts. We live and commune with them in 
their writings. We enjoy the benefit of their labours. 
Our institutions have been founded by them. We are sur- 
rounded by the works of th« dead. Our knowledge and 
cur arts are the fruit of their toil. Our minds have been 
formed by their instructions. We are most intimately con- 
nected with them by a thousand dependencies. Those 
whom we have loved in life are still objects of our deepest 
and" holiest affections. Their power over us remains 
They are with us in our solitary walks ; and their voices 
speak 10 our hearts in the silence of midnight. Their 
image is impressed upon our dearest recollections, and our 
most sacred hopes. They form an essential part of our 
treasure laid up in heaven. For, above all, we are sepa- 
rated from them but for a little time. We are soon to be 
united with them. If we follow in the path of those we 
have loved, we too shall soon join the innumerable company 
of the spirits of just men made perfect. Our affections 
and our hopes are not buried in the dust, to which we com- 
mit the poor remains of mortality. The blessed retain 
their remembrance and their love for us in heaven ; and 
we will cherish our remembrance and our love for them 
while on earth. 

Creatures of imitation and sympathy as we are, we look 
around us for <^ pport and countenance even in our virtues. 
We recur for them, most securely, to the examples of the 
dead. There is a degree of insecurity and uncertainty 
about living worth. The stamp has not yet been put upon 
it, which precludes all change, and seals it up as a just 
object of admiration for future times. There is no service 
v^hich a man of commanding intellect can render his fel- 
low creatures better than that of leaving behind him an 
unspotted example. If he do not confer upon them this 
benefit ; if he leave a character dark with vices in the 
19 



218 c n-place book of prose. 

sight of God, but dazzling with shining qualities in tb* 
view of men ; it may be that all his other services had 
better have been forborne, and he had passed inacti\e and 
unnoticed through life. It is a dictate of wisdom, there- 
fore, as well as feeling, when a man, eminent for his vir- 
tues and talents, has been taken away, to collect the riclies 
of his goodness, and add them 'c the treasury of human 
improvement. The true Christian liveth not for himself, 
and dieth not for himself; and it is thus, in one respect, 
that he dieth not for himself. 



Difficulties encountered by the Federal Conveniion. 
Madisox. 

Amoxg the difficulties encountered by the convention, 
a very important one must have lain, in combining tlie 
requisite stability and energy in government, w'.th tbe 
inviolable attention due to liberty, and to the republican 
form. Without substantially ficcomplishiug this part cf 
their undertaking, they would have verj- imperfectly ful- 
filled the object of their appointment, or the expoctatici/ 
of the public ; yet, that it could not easily be accoRiplished, 
will be denied by no oue, who is unwilling to betray his 
ignorance on the subject. Energy in governu^.ent is 
essential to that security against external and internal 
danger, and to that prompt and salutary execution of the 
laws, which enter into the very detinition of good govern- 
ment. Stability in government is essential to national 
character, and to the advantages annexed to it, as well as 
to that repose and confidence in the minds of the people, 
which are among the chief blessings of c\\\\ society. An 
irregular and mutable legislation is not more an evil in 
itself, than it is odious to the people ; and it may be pro- 
nounced with assurance, that the people in this country, 
enlightened as they are with regard to the nature, aii''' 
interested, as the great body of them are, in the effects 
of good government, will never be satisfied till som*} 
remedy be applied to the vicissitudes and uncertainties, 
which characterize the state administrations. On compar- 



COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 219 

ing, however, these valuable ingredients with the vital 
principles of liberty, we must perceive, at once, the dilFi- 
culty of mingling them together in their due proportions. 
The genius of republican liberty seems to demand, on the 
one side, not only that all power should be derived fvcrn 
the people, but that those intrusted with it should be kept 
in dependence on the people, by a short duration of their 
aj)pointments ; and that, even during this short period, the 
trust should be placed not in a few, but in a number of 
hands. Stability, on the contrary, requires that the hands 
in which power is lodged should remain for a length of 
time the same. A frequent change of men will result 
from a frequent return of elections ; and a frequent change 
of measures from a frequent change of men ; whilst energy 
in government requires not only a certain duration of pow- 
er, but the execution of it by a single person. 

Not less arduous must have been the task of marking the 
proper line of partition betv/een the authority of the gen- 
eral, and that of the state governments. Every man will 
be sensible of this difficulty, in proportion as he has been 
accustomed to contemplate and discriminate objects, exten- 
sive and complicated in their nature. The faculties of the 
mind itself have never yet been distinguished and defined, 
with satisfactory precision, by all the efforts of the most 
acute and metaphysical philosophers. Sense, perception, 
judgment, desire, volition, memory, imagination, are found 
to be separated by such delicate shades and minute grade- 
tions, that their boundaries have eluded the most subtile 
investigations, and remain a pregnant source of ingenious 
disquisition and controversy. The boundaries between the 
great kingdoms of nature, and, still more, between the 
various provinces and lesser proportions into which they 
are subdivided, afford another illustration of the same 
important truth. The most sagacious and laborious natu- 
ralists have never yet succeeded in tracing, with certainty, 
the line which separates the district of vegetable life 
from the neighbouring region of unorganized matter, or 
which marks the termination of the former, and the com- 
mencement of ihe animal enipire. A still greuier obscu- 
rity lies in the distinctive characters, by which the object 



220 COMMOjg-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

in each of these great departments of nature have bees 
arranged and assorted. 

When we pass from the works of nature, in which all 
the dehneations are perfectly accurate, and appear to be 
otherwise only from the imperfection of the eye whicii 
surveys them, to the institutions of man, in wliich the ob- 
scurity arises as well from the object itself, as from tiie 
organ by which it is contemplated, we must perceive the 
necessity of moderating still further our expectations and 
hopes from the efforts of human sagacity. Experience has 
instructed us, that no skill in the science of government 
has yet been able to discriminate and define, with sufficient 
certainty, its three great provinces, the legislative, the 
executive, and the judiciary ; or even the privileges and 
powers of the different legislative branches. Questions 
daily occur, in the course of practice, which prove the 
obscurity that reigns over these subjects, and which puzzle 
the greatest adepts in political science. 

Besides the obscurity arising from the complexity of 
objects, and the imperfection of the human faculties, the 
medium through which the conceptions of men are con- 
veyed to each other, adds a fresh embarrassment. The 
use of words is to express ideas. Perspicuity, therefore, 
requires not only that the ideas should be distinctly formed, 
but that they should be expressed by words distinctively 
and exclusively appropriated to them. But no language is 
so copious as to supply words and phrases for every com- 
j)lex idea, or so correct as not to include many equivocally 
denoting difTerent ideas. Hence it must happen, that, how- 
ever accurately objects may be discriminated in themselves, 
and however accurately the discrimination may be consid- 
ered, the definition of them may be rendered inaccurate 
by the inaccuracy of the terms in which it is delivered. 
And this unavoidable inaccuracy must be gre-- /er or less, 
according to the complexity and novelty of the objects 
defined. "When the Almighty himself condescends to 
address mankind in their own language, his meaning, 
luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful 
by the cloudy medium through which it is communi- 
cated. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 221 

Here, then, are three sources of vague and incorrect 
definitions ; — indistinctness of the object, imperfection of 
the organ of perception, inadequateness of the vehicle of 
ideas. Any one of these must produce a certain degree 
of obscurity. Tlie convention, in dehneating the bouudai y 
between the federal and state jurisdictions, must have 
experienced the full effect of them all. 

Would it be wonderful if, under the pressuie of all 
these difficulties, the convention should have been forced 
into some deviations from that artificial structure and regu- 
lar symmetry, which an abstract vie\r of the subject might 
lead an ingenious theorist to bestow on a constitution plan- 
ned in his closet or in his imagination ? The real wonder 
is, that so many difficulties should have been surmounted ; 
and surmounted with unanimity almost as unprecedented 
as it must have been unexpected. It is impossible for any 
man of candour to reflect on this circumstance without par- 
taking of the astonishment. It is impossible for the man 
of pious reflection not to perceive in it the finger of that 
Almighty Hand, which has been so frequently and signally 
extended to our relief in the critical stages of the revolution. 



Reflections on the Battle of Lexington. — Edward 
Everett. 

It was one of those great days, one of those elemental 
occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise and 
act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had 
been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce 
any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted, 
whether there was an efficient order given the whole day 
to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the 
people, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, 
starling from their beds at midnight, from their firesides, 
and their fields, to take their own cause into their own 
hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sub- 
lime ; when the want of every thing is fully made up by 
Ihe spirit of the cause ; and the soul within stands in place 
of discipline, organization, resources. In the prodigious 
19* 



222 COMMOiNT -PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. 

efforts of a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendour 
Df their array, there is something revolting to the retiecting 
mind. The ranks are tilled with the desperate, the 
mercenary, the depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name 
of subordination, merges the free will of one hundred 
thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one; the 
humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever de- 
sert the individual bosom, are sounds without a meaning 
to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster of prey, a 
mercenary army. It is hard to say who are most to be 
commiserated, the wretched people on whom it is let loose, 
or the still more v/retched people whose substance has 
been sucked out, to nourish it into strength and fury. But 
in the efforts of the people, of the people struggling for 
their rights, moving not in organized, disciplined masses, 
but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for 
heart, — though I like not war, nor any of its works, — there 
is something glorious. They can then move forward 
without orders, act together without combination, and brave 
the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments to cover, 
or v/alls to shield them. No dissolute camp has worn off 
from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness ol 
that home, where his mother and his sisters sit waiting, 
with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news 
from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of the can- 
queror has turned the veteran's heart into marble ;• their 
valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indif- 
ference to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to 
the life of others ; but in the strength and spirit of the cause 
alone they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they con- 
quer. The people always conquer. They always must con- 
quer. Armies may be defeated ; kings maybe overthrown, 
and new dynasties imposed by foreign arms on an ignorant 
and slavish race, that care not in what language the cove- 
nant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed 
of their barter and sale is made out. But the people never 
invade , iod, when they rise against the invader, are never 
subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to 
the mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their 
castles; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and 
nature, — God, — is their A\y. Now he overwhelms the 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 223 

no£ i of tlieir enemies beneath his drifiing mountains of 
san 1 .j now he buries them beneath an atmosphere oi" failing 
snows; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets; he puts 
a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of 
their leaders ; and he never gave, and never will give, a full 
and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved 
to be free. 



Purpose of the Monument on Bunker Hill. — Webster, 

We kttow that the record of illustrious actions is most 
safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. 
We know, that if we could cause this structure to ascend, 
not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them, 
its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, which, 
in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the 
earth, and which History charges herself with making 
known to all future times. We know that no inscription, 
on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry 
information of the events we commemorate where it has 
not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not 
outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, 
can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edi- 
fice, to show our deep sense of the value and importance 
of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by presenting 
this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar 
sentiments, and to foster a constant regard to tlie principles 
of the revolution. Human beings are composed not of rea- 
son only, but of imagination also, and sentiment ; and that 
is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appropriated to 
the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, and 
opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. 

Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate 
national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. 
It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to 
the spirit cf national independence, and we wish that the 
light of pe ice may rest upon it forever. We rear a memo- 
r.ai of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit, which 
has been conferred on our land, and of the happy influences. 



224 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

which have been produced, by the same events, on thi 
general interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, 
to mark a spot, which must be forever dear to us. and our 
posterity. V/e wish, that whosoever, in all coming tims. 
shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not 
undistinguished where the first great battle of the revolu- 
tion was fought. We wish, that this structure may pro- 
claim the magnitude and importance of thart event to every 
class and every age. We wish, that infancy may learn the 
purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and that weary 
and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the 
recollections which it suggests. We wish, that labor majf 
look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We 
wish, that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come 
upon all nations, must be expected to come on us also, 
desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hither, and be 
assured that the foundations of our national power still 
stand strong. We wish, that this column, rising towards 
heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedi- 
cated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, 
a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, 
finally, that the last object on the sight of him who leaves 
his native shore, and the first to gladden his who revisits 
it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty 
and glory of his country. Let it rise, till it meet the sun 
in his coming ; let the earliest light of morning gild it, and 
parting day linger and play upon its summit. 



Albums and the Alps. — Buckminster. 

You find, in some of the rudest passes in the Alps, 
homely inns, which public beneficence has erected for the 
convenience of the weary and benighted traveller. In 
most of these inns albums are kept to record the names 
of those, whose curiosity has led them into these regions of 
barrenness, and the album is not unfrequently the only 
book in the house. In the.album of the Grand Chartreuse, 
Gray, on his way to Geneva, recorded his deathless name, 
and left that exquisite Latin ode, beginning, " ! tu seven 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 226 

religio loci ;" an ode which is indeed " pure nectar." It 
is curious to observe in these books the differences of na- 
tional character. The Enghshman usually writes his name 
only, without explanation or comment. The Frenchman 
records something of his feelings, destination, or business ; 
commonly adding a line of poetry, an epigram, or some 
exclamation of pleasure or disgust. The German leaves a 
long dissertation upon the state of the roads, the accc ni- 
modations, &c., detailing at full length whence he came and 
whither he is going, through long pages of crabbed 
writing. 

In one of the highest regions of the Swiss Alps, after a 
day of excessive labour in reaching the summit of our 
journey, near those thrones erected ages ago for the ma- 
jesty of Nature, we stopped, fatigued and dispirited, on a 
spot destined to eternal barrenness, where we found one of 
these rude but hospitable inns open to receive us. There 
was not another human habitation within many miles. All 
the soil, which we could see, had been brought thither, and 
placed carefully round the cottage, to nourish a few cabbages 
and lettuces. There were some goats, which supplied the 
cottagers with milk ; a few fowls lived in the house ; and 
the greatest luxuries of the place were new-made cheeses, 
and some wild Alpine mutton, the rare provision of the trav- 
eller. Yet here Nature had thrown off the veil, and 
appeared in all her sublimity. Summits of bare granite 
rose all around us. The snow-clad tops of distant Alps 
seemed to chill the moon-beams that lighted on them ; 
and we felt all the charms of the picturesque, mingled 
with the awe inspired by unchangeable grandeur. We 
seemed to have reached the original elevations of the 
globe, o'ertopping forever the tumults, the vices and the 
miseries of ordinary existence, far out of hearing of the 
murmurs of a busy world, which discord ravages, and 
luxury corrupts. We asked for the album, and a large 
folio was brought to us, almost filled with the scrawls of 
every nation on earth that could write. Instantly our 
fatigue was forgotten, and the evening passed away pleas- 
antly in the entertainment which this book afforded ua, 
I copied the following Frencli couplet : 



226 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

" Dans ces sauvages lieux tout orgueil s'humanise , 
Dieu s'y montre plus grand ; I'honime s'y pulverise 



I wish I could preserve the elegance, as well as the c<m 
densed sentiment of the original 

Still are these rugged realms ; e'en pride is husli^d ; 
God seems more grand ; man crumbles into dust 



Interview with Robert Southey. — Griscom. 

On alighting at Keswick, I inquired for the house o{ 
Robert Southey ; for it is in this poetic region that the 
laureate has fixed his residence; remote from the confusion 
and irritations of the metropolis ; hut holding a daily inter- 
course, by the rapid conveyance of the mail, with tliat 
great fountain of intelligence, and deriving all that he may 
wish from the proliiic stores of Paternoster-Row. Hi3 
house is situated on an eminence, with a fine prospect 
before it ; a plain and unimposing, but comfortable man- 
sion. I was introduced to him in his library up stairs, and 
was met with an ease and politeness, which distinguished 
at once the man of kind feeling, of good sense, and good 
society. He has still an air of youthfulness in his counte- 
mince, and his manners are lively and animated. 

There are few men, I should presume, in England, vv'lio 
are spending their lives more classicallj^ in a more agreea- 
ble literary retirement, than Robert Southey. His library 
occupies several rooms. The fertility of his mind, and the 
activity of his researches, appear to leave him at no loss in 
the selection of a subject for the employment of his geni- 
us ; and the different productions of his pen are too well 
known to need any remarks from me upon their various 
merits. His early life was spent in Bristol. It was in 
that neighbourhood that Coleridge,* Lovell, and himself, ail 



* The yo-jthful enthusiasm, which dictated this romantic idta, is: % ^. 
beautifully referred to in an essay in the first volume of " The Vr'^f^d.' 
by Coleridge ; whose prose writings should be more extensively kiuwi? 
in this country than they are.— Ed 



COMMON-l'LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 22? 

follow commoners at Oxford, attached themselves to thres 
sisters of a respectable family, whom they married ; and, 
in the ardour of youthful anticipation, and with those high- 
wrought notions of worldly happiness, which always have 
much more of poetry than of sober judgment in them, they 
resolved, with their wives, to embark for the United States, 
to settle themselves in a retired spot on the banks of the 
Susquehannah, there to plant an Arcadia, and there to 
spend a life of primitive simplicity and Elysian enjoymeni. 
Happily for their comfort, and the credit oi English litera- 
ture, the scheme was given up. 

Southey is about forty-five years of age. His person 
is of the middle size, and his looks and manners are indic- 
ative of frankness and amiableness of character. In the 
same house, but in separate apartments, the two sisters of 
his wife, the widow of Lovell, and the wife of Coleridge, 
the poet, also reside. The former of these two, who lost 
her husband soon after her marriage, has employed herself 
in instructing the daughters of her brother-in-law. Cole- 
ridge lives, I believe, altogether in London ; the separation 
from his wife arising more from his eccentricities and sin- 
gularities than from any breach of family agreement. His 
two sons remain with their mother, and I have understood 
that Southey, with a liberality that does him the highest 
honour, takes upon himself the responsibility of their edu- 
cation, and the utmost harmony prevails in the family. 

In rising to take leave, after an hour of delightful con- 
versation, Southey proposed to walk with me on the mar- 
gin of the lake. We had a charming ramble of half a 
mile along a path which presented, at various points, beau- 
tiful views of the Derwent-water. This end of the lake 
is diversified with islands, some of which are adorned with 
elegant mansions. Boats, neatly painted, and adapted tc 
excursions of pleasure, are kept by many of the inhab- 
itants of Keswick. The grounds, through which we 
walked, belonged formerly to the Earl of Derwent-water; 
aut, becoming confiscated to the crown, they were appro- 
priated to the support of Greenwich Hospital, to the funds 
of which they still contribute. We walked to a point 
which gave us a view of the southern termination of the 
like, and the entrance of Eorrowdale. The scenery la 



22S COMMON-PLACE BOOii Of PROSE. 

wild and beautiful, reminding ire of Lake George in .our 
own state, but more subdued and enriched by cultivation 
Skiddaw, one of the highest mountains in Cumberlano, 
rises a little to the north of Keswick. Its sua ait u 
about three thousand feet above the level of the sea, 
equalling, in point of elevation, the highest peak of the 
High-lands, through which the Hudson passes, just below 
Newburgh. Southey informed me that he had made an 
excursion to the top of this mountain with Sir Humphrey 
Davy. Near the summit the latter discovered a mineral 
of rare occurrence, (if I recollect rightly, the chiastoiite.) 
found only in clay-slate, which appears to be the prevailing 
formation of this mountain. — Our walk along the Derwant 
having extended as far as my limited time would admit, 
we returned to one of the village inns, where I parted 
with a person, whose conversation and suavity of manners, 
more than the poetry and the prose, which have placed 
him among the most prominent of living authors, have left 
an impression which I shall delight in cherishing. 



Christmas. — Irvik^g. 

There is nothing in England that exercises a more 
delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of 
the holyday customs and rural games of former times. 
They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the 
May-morning of ray life,, when as yet I only knew the 
world through books, and believed it to be all that poets 
had painted ; and they bring with them the flavour of those 
honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, 
I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social, 
and joyous, than at present. I regret to say, that they 
are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually 
worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern 
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of 
Gothic arcliitecture, which we see crumbling in various 
^arts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of 
ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of lat- 
ter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fond 



COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 229 

ness about tlie rural game and holyday revel, from wh\ch 
<i has derived so raany of its themes — as the ivy winds its 
rich foliage about the gothic arch and mouldering tower, 
, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together 
.,heir tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them 
tn verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- 
ens the strongest and most heart-felt associations. There 
is a tone of sacred and solemn feeling, that blends with our 
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and 
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about 
this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They 
dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and 
the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. 
They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the 
season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on 
the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I 
do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feel- 
ings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ 
performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling 
every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connexions, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- 
tinually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the chil- 
dren of a family who have launched forth in life, and v/an- 
dered v^'idely asunder, once more to assemble about the 
paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there 
to grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year, that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other 
times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the 
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth, and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad 
aivi every where." The song of the bird, the murmur o» 
the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft 
v'cluptuousness of i -.mmer, the golden pomp of autumn, 
20 



230 C0M5I0x\-PLACE UJJOK OF PROSE. 

earth, with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven, 
with its deep, delicious blue, and its cloudy magnihcence, 
all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in 
the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of win 
ter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and 
wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and deso- 
lation of the landscape, tiie short, gloomy days, and dark- 
some nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut 
in our feelings, also, from rambling abroad, and make us 
more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. 
Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympa- 
thies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of 
each other's society, and are brought more closely togeth- 
er by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart 
calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from- the 
deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the deep recesses 
of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth 
the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom 
without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled 
with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy 
blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through 
the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier 
welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality 
expand into a broader and more cordial smile — v/here is 
the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the 
winter fire-side ? And, as the hollow blast of wintry wind 
rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what 
can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and shel- 
tered security, with which we look round upon the com- 
fortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 



Declaration of American Independence. — Jeffersow. 

Whek, in the course of human events, it becomes 
necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands 
which have connected them with another, and to assume, 
among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal sta- 



COM.MON-PLACE UOUK OF I'llOSE. 231 

(ion, to which the laws of nature and of nature's God 
pntitle thenj, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind 
requires that they should declare the causes which impel 
them to the separation. 

We hold these truths to he self-evident : — that all men 
are created equal ; that they are endowed by their Creator 
with certain unalienable rights , that among these are life, 
liberty, and the pursuit Of happiness; that, to secure these 
rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving 
their just powers from the consent of the governed ; that, 
whenever any form of government becomes destructive of 
these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, 
and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on 
such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as 
to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and 
happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate, that govern 
ments long established should not be changed for light and 
transient causes ; and, accordingly, all experience hath 
shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while 
evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing 
the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a 
long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably 
the same object, evinces a design to reduce them undei 
absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to 
throw off such government, and to provide new guards for 
their future security. Such has been the patient suffer- 
ance of these colonies, and such is now the necessity 
which constrains them to alter their former systems of 
government. The history of the present king of Great 
Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all 
having in direct object the establishment of an absolute 
tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be sub- 
mitted to a candid world. 

rie has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome 
and necessary for the public good. He has forbidden his 
governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing impor- 
tance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent 
should be obtained ; and, when so suspended, he has utterly 
neglected to attend to them He has refused to pass other 
laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, 
unless those people would relinquish the right of represeo- 



232 co3i3iex-PLACE book ut' ruosE. 

tadon in the legislature — a right inestimable to them, and 
formidable to tyrants only. He has called together legis- 
lative bodies, at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant 
from the depositories of ibeir public records, for the sole 
purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his meas- 
ures. He has dissolved representatives bouses, repeatedly, 
for opposiDg, with manly firmness, his invasions on the 
rights of the people. He has refused, for a long lime after 
such dissolutions, lo cause others to be elected ; whereby 
Ihe legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have re- 
turned to the people at large for theLr exercise ; the state 
remaining, in the mean time, exposed to all the danger of 
invasion from without, and convulsions within. He has 
endeavoured to prevent the population of these states ; for 
that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of for- 
eigners ; refusing to pass others, to encourage their migra- 
tion hither, and raising the conditions of nev,- appropriations 
of lands. He has obstructed the administration of justice, 
by refusing his assent to laws far establishing judicial y 
powers. He has made judges dependent on his will, alone, 
for the tenure of their oluces, and the amount and pay- 
ment of their salaries. He has erected a multitude of new 
offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our 
people, and eat out their substance. He has kept among 
us, in times of peace, standing armies, without the consent 
of our legislatures. He has affected to render the milita- 
ry independent of, and superior to, the civil power. He 
has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction 
foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged .by our 
laws ; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legisla- 
tion, — for quartering large bodies of armed troops among 
us ; for protecting them, by a mock trial, from punishment 
for any murders which they should commit on the inhabit- 
».nts of these states: for cutting off our trade with all parts 
jf the world ; for imposing taxes on us without our con- 
sent ; for depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of 
trial by jury ; for transportino: us beyond seas, to be tried 
for pretended offences : for abolishing the free system of 
English laws in a neighbouring province, establishing tlipre- 
in an aFbitrar\- frovemment, and enlarging its boundaries 
so as to render it at once an example, and fit instrument. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 233 

for introducing the same absolute rule into tliese colonies; 
for taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable 
laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our govern- 
ments ; for suspending our own legislatures, and declaring 
themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all 
cases whatsoever. He has abdicated government here, by 
declaring us out of his protection, and waging war against 
us. He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned 
our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. He is at 
this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries, 
to complete the work of death, desolation, and tyrarny, al 
ready begun, with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy, 
scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally 
unworthy the head of a civilized nation. He has con- 
strained our fellow-citizens, taken captive on the high seas, 
to bear arms against their country, to become the execu- 
tioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves 
by their hands. He has excited domestic insurrections 
amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants 
of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known 
rule of warfare is, an undistinguished destruction of all 
ages, sexes, and conditions. 

In every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned for 
redress in the most humble terms. Our repeated petitions have 
been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose 
character is thus marked by every act which may define a 
tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. — Nor have 
we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. Wo 
have warned them, from time to time, of attempts made 
by their legisliture to extend an unwarrantable jurisdic- 
tion over us. AVe have reminded them of the circumstan- 
ces of our emigration and settlement here. We have ap- 
pealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and w^e 
have conjured therr., by the ties of our common kindred, 
to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably in- 
terrupt our connexions and correspondence. They, too 
have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity 
We must therefore acquiesce in the necessity which de- 
nounces our separation ; and hold them, as we hold the rest 
of mankind, — enemies in war, — in peace, friend)*. 
20* 



234 COMMON-l'LACE BOOK OF PROSE. . 

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States 
of America, in general congress assembled, appealing to 
the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our 
ntentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good 
people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that 
these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and 
independent states ; that they are absolved from all alle- 
giance to the British crown, and that all political connex- 
ion between them and the state of Great Britain is, and 
ought to 6e, totally dissolved ; and that, as free and inde- 
pendent states, they have fall power to levy war, conclude 
peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do ail 
other acts and things which independent states may of 
right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with 
a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, 
we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, 
and our sacred honour. 



Mementos of the Listabiliiy of human Existence. — 
Fitch. 

We have such a memento in the fact, that otiiers, who 
have been sharing with us in our privileges, are constant- 
y leaving the world. They who dwell with us in the citj- 
of our residence on earth — beings of immortality — are 
constantly bidding us adieu, and entering into eternity. All 
our privileges thus become associated with the memory of 
former companion?, who once had their abode below. They 
dwelled with us but a few daj's, they scarcely made them- 
selves known to us, when they gave the farewell look, 
pressed the parting hand, bade adieu, and entered on an 
abode in eternity^ The tolling bell, the mournful proces- 
sion, the grave of their relics, the erected monument, sig- 
nalized their departure ; and now all around the city of our 
abode are the traces of their former presence, reminding us 
of our having no continuing residence here. We look back 
at the da\-s they passed with us before they entered into 
eternitj', and they appear to us but a hand breadth ; and. 
from their dwellfa g in eternity, we seem to hear them say. 



eOMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 235 

as we miss them from the scenes in which they once min- 
gled with us, that these are scenes where pilgrims to eter. 
nity tarry but a day. When in the habitations where they 
once dwelt with us, or in the streets where they walked with 
us, or the sanctuary to which they went with us in company, 
or at the mercy-seat where they once bent with us the knee 
of devotion, or by the Scriptures before which they once 
listened with us to the words of Jesus Christ, we look for 
them, but they are gone ; the place which they once occu- 
pied at our side is vacant ; they are far from us in their 
eternal dwelling ; and the places where we once knew 
them are now so many mementos, that here we ourselves 
have no continuing city. 

V/e have another continual memento of this fact, in the 
advancement we are constantly making ourselves towards 
eternity. Every thing in the city of our residence on 
earth reminds us, that we are never stationary in it, but are 
always advancing towards the period of our final departure. 
Vf e have entered into a scene of divine wonders, but we 
cannot delay to spend our existence here in gazing upon 
them; we are constantly in motion, urging our way through 
them to an eternal dwelling. Each breaking morn, each 
radiant noon, each shadowy eve, as they pass by us, make 
no tarrying, but pass us never more to return. The joc- 
und Spring, Summer, with his swarms of life. Autumn, 
v/ith her golden harvest. Winter, with his icy sceptre and 
his snowy robes, as each year they pass us, are in constant 
motion, and, while we greet them, take their leave of us 
forever. Each changing scene of life arrests our minds, 
enlists our feelings ; then takes its final leave of us, the 
sons of eternity. Creeping infancy, merry boyhood, as- 
piring youth, industrious manhood, decrepit age, we meet 
in swift succession ; just greet, and bid adieu for eternity. 
In the midst of all the privileges of our city here below, 
do our advancing steps towards the eternal world serve 
eor.3tantly to remind us, that here we have no permanent 
dwelling. The aggregate of days that have passed by us, 
the yearly seasons, the scenes of life, and periods of age, 
since we came into possession of our privileges, — since we 
first knew our dwellings, walked our streets, and ( ntered 
our sanctuaries, and heaid the words of God, —are so many 



236 coirviox-PLACE book of prose 

idr£L.«:es towards eternity ; ajid tell, as tiiey thi^en os 
the path we leare, how sooa we reach the close of oar pU- 
grimage, and enter iip(» ux^known worlds. 

^e hare another constant memento of the fact, again. La 
our mahDitj of prolonging oar continuance in the world 
We hare constant notices around ns of our frailty, and ina- 
bility to continne to ourselves our present privileges for the 
fintnre. Eren m the city of our privileges below, do we 
see ooTselres hurried on, by an unseen hand we caniK^ 
cimtTol ; the ahnighty Guide who conducts us seems un- 
willing we ^lould stay ; the God of our ^nrits, who goes 
wi& us, deagns we should have oar settled dwelling in 
eternity; ai^ sotm he will bring us to the gates of the 
city, and, at the hidding we cannot resist, must we kake 
our leave <^ it for eternity. Around us, every thing is be- 
tofeening his deagn of our departure and our inability to 
pndcmg onr stay. The frail hc^d we take of every earthly 
possession teDs that our grasp on none is for eternity. We 
are nurried tm from object to object, before we can call 
any thing ours. We meet friends, but, while we cling 
to them, the unseen hand of Providence tears us away 
from iheir embrace. Beauty we would linger here to ad- 
mire, but, while we look, the grace of the fashion of it 
perishedi. Power just takes us by the hand, and bids us 
adieu to greet a successor. Fame crowns us with her 
wreath, but, while we feel the rising fiush of joy, she 
plucks it off to sport with others. Wealth comes to feast 
us, and roll ns in his car of pleasures, and, while accepttnj 
his proposals, he dismisses us to tempt srane other pjlgrims 
<Ki their way to eternity. The unseen hand of Providence 
thus tears us away fitMoa object after object, to show that 
here is not oar rest, and fliat our hold on earth is frail and 
giving way. Around the city of our habitation, too, are 
the messengers he sends to warn us of this approaching 
departure. Decay stands with tottering limbs and feeble 
breath, and lisps to us, widi dying life, that we draw nigh 
the gales of our habitation, and soon will leave it for eter- 
nal worlds. Diseases — busy messengers — fly here and 
there, to tell us of our fi^ abode, and whisper in our ears 
*' eternity." Death, armed widi res^ess power, stand? 
with his commissions, and their unkBown dates, to lead u* 



CO]>?MON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. i^7 

jut L/f our residence below, and bar on us its gates forever 
Every where in tlie city of our abode are v>re reminded 
that we have not the power to prolong our stay in it, and 
that soon we shall leave its privilege?, its dwellings, its 
streets, its sanctuaries, its Scriptures, its busy throng, for 
eternity. 

There is another means reminding us constantly of his 
fact, — the voice of God.. In the city of our habitation be- 
low, God has published his glories, his statutes, his offers 
of pardon' and assistance, for our use as sojourners here, 
who are passing to eternity. He, the infinite Bc'ng, who 
is from everlasting to everlasting himself, has conferred on 
us an existence, that is to continue and grow up by the 
side of his, through everlasting ages. He has beheld us, 
in the first stages of our being here, engaged in unrighteous 
rebellion against his authority, and bent on neglect of his 
glories ; and, moved with pity, sent his everlasting Son to 
atone for our guilt, and to call us to repentance, ^nd his 
Holy Spirit to indite his will, and influence us to obedience. 
In our habitation we have his word ; here temples are 
erected for his service ; a day is appointed by him for men 
to assemble ; ministers commissioned to teach ; and they 
who love his name speak to one another and to their fellow- 
men of his designs. Wherever we go, then, the voice of 
God is reaching us, and re-echoing the truth, that we are 
beings whose final dwelling-place is eternity, and who have 
here no continuing city. The Bible, wherever it meets 
our eye, reiterates the voice of God, that we must die and 
rise again in other worlds. In each reproof of conscience, 
his awful voice is heard to speak a reckoning day in eter^ 
nity. In each act we do for God or for his kingdom here, 
his voice of love whispers of eternal joys. Each revohing 
Sabbath, with its pealing bells, and open sanctuaries, and 
solemn rites, bears on its hours his voice, that warns us of 
an abode in heaven or hell. Each sermon is the call he 
makes to hear his voice to-day. In each season of prayer 
we hear him say, that we have not reached our home — 
that we are pilgrims here. From the throne of glory, on 
which he will sit in judgment, and assign us our dwelling 
m eternity, tie Saviour now sends down the voice of m©« 



238 coMMON-Pi.auE book of prose. 

nition ; and, while it rolls round the world we dwell in, tes 
thousand messengers echo back the voice to our ears, tha! 
" here we have no continuing city." 



Description of the Preaching of TVhitJield. — 
Miss Francis. 

There was nothing in the appearance of this extraor 
dinary man, which v/ould lead you to sup^^ose that a Felix 
could tremble before him. " He was something above 
the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable for 
a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion was very 
fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small and 
lively : in recovering from the measles, he had contracted 
a squint with one of them ; but this peculiarity rather ren- 
dered the expression of his countenance more remember- 
able, than in any degree lessened the effect of its uncom- 
mon sweetness. His voice excelled, both in melody and 
compass ; and its fine modulations were happily accompa- 
nied by that grace of action, which he possessed in an em- 
inent degree, and which has been said to be the chief 
requisite for an orator." To have seen him when he first 
commenced, one would have thought him any thing but 
enthusiastic and glowing; but, as he proceeded, his heart 
warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetu 
0U3 and animated, till, forgetful of every thing around him, 
he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to be 
seech in agony for his fellow-beings. 

After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long 
time in profound silence ; and so powerfullj'' had it affected 
the most heartless of his audieiDce, that a stillness like that 
of the tomb pervaded the whole house. Before he com- 
menced his sermon, long, darkening columns crowded the 
bright, sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull 
shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm. 

His text was, " Strive to enter in at the strait gate ; for 
many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and si all not 
be able." " See that emblem of human life," said he. 
pointing to a shadow that was flittng acrosf the floor. " It 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 235 

passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness of heav- 
en from our view : — but it is gone. And where will ye 
be. my hearers, when your lives have passed away like 
that dark cloud ? Oh, my dear friends, I see thousands 
sitting attentive, with their eyes fixed on the poor, unwor- 
thy preacher. In a few days, we shall all meet at the judg- 
ment-seat of Christ. We shall form a part of that vast 
assembly that will gather before the throne ; and every 
eye will behold the judge. With a voice whose call you 
must abide and answer, he will inquire whether on earth 
ye strove to enter in at the strait gate ; whether you were 
supremely devoted to God ; whether your hearts were ab- 
sorbed in him. My blood runs cold when I think how 
many of you will then seek to enter in, and shall not be 
able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge of 
the whole earth ? Can you say it has been your whole 
endeavour to mortify the flesh, with its affections and lusts ? 
that your life has been one long effort to do the will of 
God ? No ! you must answer, I made myself easy in the 
world by flattering myself that all would end well ; but I 
have deceived my own soul, and am lost. 

" You, false and hollow Christian, of what avail will 
it be that you^have done many things ; that you have read 
much in the sacred word ; that you have made long prayers ; 
that you have attended religious duties, and appeared holy 
in the eyes of men ? What will all this be, if, instead ot 
loving Him supremely, you have been supposing you should 
exalt yourself in heaven by acts really polluted and un- 
holy ? 

" And you, rich man, wherefore do you hoard your sil- 
ver ? wherefore count the price you have received for him 
whom you every day crucify in your love of gain ? Wh}--, 
that, when you are too poor to buy a drop of cold water, 
5 our beloved son may be rolled to hell in his chariot pil- 
lowed and cushioned around him." 

His eye gradually lighted up, as he proceeded, till, 
towards the close, it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire. 

" Oh, sinners !" he exclaimed, " by all your hopes of 
happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of 
God be awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kin- 
dled against you. See there '" said he, pointing to thp 



240 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

lightning, which played on the corner of the pulpit — " 'Tis 
a gltnce from the angry eye of Jehovah ! Hark !" con- 
tinued he, raising his finger in a listening attitude, as the 
distant thunder grew louder and louder, and broke in one 
tremendous crash over the building. "It was the voice 
of the Almighty as he passed by in his anger !" 

As the sound died away, he covered his face with his 
hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in inward 
and intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly away, and 
the sun, bursting forth in his might, threw across the heav- 
ens a magnificent arch of peace. Rising, and pointing to 
the beautiful object, he exclaimed, " Look upon the rain- 
bow, and praise him that made it. Very beautiful it is in 
the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about 
with glory ; and the hands of the Most High have bend- 
ed it." 

The effect was astonishing. Even Somerville shaded 
his eyes when he pointed to the lightning, and knelt as he 
listened to the approaching thunder ; while the deep sen- 
sibility of Grace, and the thoughtless vivacity of Lucre- 
tia, yielded to the powerful excitement in an unrestrained 
burst of tears. " Who could resist such eloquence ?" said 
Lucretia, as they mingled with the departing throng. 



Anecdote of Dr. Chauncy. — TtrnoR. 

Dr. Cooper, who was a man of accomplished manners, 
and fond of society, was able, by the aid of his fine talents, 
to dispense with some of the severe study that others en- 
gaged in. This, however, did not escape the envy and 
malice of the world, and it was said, in a kind of petulant 
and absurd exaggeration, that he used to walk to the south- 
end of a Saturday, and, if he saw a man riding into town 
in a black coat, would stop, and ask him to preach tho 
next day. Dr. Chauncy was a close student, very absent, 
and very irritable. On these traits in the character of the 
two clergymen, a servant of Dr. Chauncy laid a scheme 
for obtaining a particular object from his master. Scipio 
went into his master's study one morning to receive some 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 241 

diiections, which the doctor having given, resumed his writ- 
ing, but the servant still remained. The master, looking 
up a few minutes afterwards, and supposing he had 
just come in, said, " Scipio, what do you want ?" " I want 
a new coat, massa." " Well, go to Mrs. Chauncy, and 
tell her to give you one of my old coats ;" and was again 
absorbed in his studies. The servant remained fixed. Af- 
ter a while, the doctor, turning his eyes that way, saw him 
again, as if for the first t'rce, and said, " What do you want, 
Scip. ?" " I "van.t a new coat, mass.!." " Well, go to my 
Aife, and ^a«. her to give you one of my old coats;" and 
fell to writing once more. Scipio remained in the same 
posture. After a few moments, the doctor looked towards 
him, and repeated the former question, " Scipio, what do 
you want ?" " I want a new coat, massa." It now flashed 
over the doctor's mind, that there was something of repe- 
tition in this dialogue. " Why, have I not told you before 
to ask Mrs. Chauncy to give you one ? get away." " Yes, 
massa, but I no want a black coat." " Not want a black 
coat ! why not ?" " Why, massa, — I 'fraid to tell you, — 
but I don't want a black coat." " What's the reason you 
don't want a black coat? tell me directly." " 0! massa, 
1 don't want a black coat, but I 'fraid to tell the rea- 
son, you so passionate." " You rascal ! will you tell me 
the reason ?" " ! massa, I'm sure you be angry." " l( 
I had my cane here, you villain, I'd break your bones : 
will you tell me what you mean ?" " I 'fraid to tell you, 
massa ; I know you be angry." The doctor's impatience 
was now highly irritated, and Scipio, perceiving, by his 
glance at the tongs, that he might find a substitute for the 
cane, and that he was sufficiently excited, said, " Well, 
massa, you make me tell, but I know you be angry — I 
'fraid, massa, if I wear another black coat. Dr. Cooper ask 
me to preach for him !" This unexpected termination re- 
alized the servant's calculation ; his irritated master burst 
mto a laugh, — " Go, you rascal, get my hat and cane, anu 
tell Mrs. Chauncy she may give you a coat of any colour 
a red one if you choose." Away went the negro to his 
mistress, and the doctor to tell the story to his friend. Dr. 
Cooper. 

21 



^ 



242 co:m3iox-plac£ book of prose. 



Effects of a Dissolution of the Federal Unicn, — 
Ha3xilto:n'. 

AssiTMiXG it, thereforej as an established truth, that^ 
in case of disunion, the several state?, or such combinations 
of them as might happen to be formed out of the wreck of 
the general confederacy, would he subject to those vicissi- 
tudes of peace and war, of friendship and enmity with each 
other, which have fallen to the lot of all other nations not 
united under one government, let us enter into a concise 
detail of some of the consequences that would attend such 
a situation. 

War between the states, in the £rst periods of their sep- 
arate existence, would be accompanied with much greater 
distresses than it commonly is in those countries where 
regular military establishments have long obtained. The 
disciplined armies always kept on foot on the continent of 
Europe, though they bear a malignant aspect to liberty and 
economy, have, notwithstanding, been productive of the 
eingular advantage of rendering sudden conquests imprac- 
ticable, and of preventing that rapid desolation, which used 
to mark the progress of war prior to their introduction. The 
art of fortification has contributed to the same ends. The 
nations of Europe are encircled with chains of fortified 
places, which mutually obstruct invasion. Campaigns are 
wasted in reducing two or three fortified garrisons, to gain 
admittance into an enemy's country. Similar impedi- 
ments occur at every step, to exhaust the strength, and 
delay the progress, of an invader. Formerly, an invading 
army would penetrate into the heart of a neighbouring 
country almost as soon as intelligence of its approach could 
be received ; but now, a comparatively small force of disci- 
pUaed troops, acting on the defensive, with the aid of posts^ 
is able to impede, and finally to frustrate, the purposes of 
one much more considerable. The history of war in tha 
quarter of the globe is no longer a history of nations sub 
lined, and empires overturned : but of towns taken and re- 
taken, of battles that decide nothing, of retreats more bea- 
eficiai than Tictories, of much effort and little acqt^i: on. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 243 

In this country the scene would be altogether reversed. 
Tiie jealousy ol" military establishments would postpone 
them as long as possible. The want of fortifications, leav- 
ing the frontier of one state open to another, ^ould facili- 
tate inroads. The populous states would with little diffi- 
culty overrun their less populous neighbours. Conquests 
would be as easy to be made as difficult to be retained. 
War, therefore, would be desultory and predatory. Plun- 
der and devastation ever march in the train of irregulars. 
The calamities of individuals would ever make the princi- 
pal figure in events, and would characterize our exploits. 

This picture is not too highly wrought ; though, I con- 
fess, it would not long remain a just one. Safety from ex- 
ternal danger is the most powerful director of national con- 
duct Even the ardent love of liberty will, after a time, 
give way to its dictates. The violent destruction of life 
and property incident to war, the continual effort and 
alarm attendant on a state of continual danger, will com- 
pel nations the most attached to liberty to resort for repose 
and security to institutions, which have a tendency to de- 
stroy their civil and political rights. To be more safe, they, 
at length, become willing to run the risk of being less free. 
The institutions chiefly alluded to are standing armies, 
and the corresponding appendages of military establish- 
ments. Standing armies, it is said, are not provided against 
in the new constitution ; and it is thence inferred that they 
would exist under it. This inference, from the very forn? 
of the proposition, is, at best, problematical and uncertain 
But standing armies, it may be replied, must inevitably re* 
suit from a dissolution of the confederacy. Frequent wai 
and constant apprehension, which require a state of as con- 
stant preparation, will infallibly produce them. The weak- 
er states or confederacies would first have recourse to them, 
to put themselves on an equality with their more potent 
neighbours. They would endeavour to supply the inferi- 
ority of population and resources by a more regular and 
effective system of defence, — by disciplined troops, and by 
fortifications. They would, at the same time, be obliged 
to strengthen the executive arm of government ; in doing 
which their c6nstitutions would require a progressive di- 
rection towards monarchy. It is the nature ol wai t' iv 



244 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROS£. 

crease the executive, at the expense of the legislathe 
authority. 

The expedients, which have been mentioned, -would soon 
give the states, or confederacies, that made use of them, a 
superiority over their neighbours. Small states, or states 
of less natural strength, under vigorous governments, and 
with the assistance of disciplined armies, have often tri- 
umphed over large states, or states of greater natural 
strength, which have been destitute of these advantages. 
Neither the pride nor the safety of the important states, or 
confederacies, would permit them long to submit to this mor- 
tifying and adventitious superiority. They v/ould quickly re- 
sort to means similar to those by which it had been effected, 
to reinstate themselves in their lost pre-eminence. Thus we 
should, in a little time, see established in every part of this 
country the same engines of despotism, which have been 
the scoui-ge of the old world. This, at least, would be the 
natural course of things ; and our reasonings v.ill be likely 
to be just, in proportion as they are accommodated to this 
standard. These are not vague inferences deduced from 
speculative defects in a constitution, tne Avhol-e power of 
which is lodged in the hands of the people, or their repre- 
sentatives and delegates ; they are solid conclusions, drawn 
from the natural and necessary progress of human affairs. 



If we are wise enough to preserve the union, we may 
for ages enjoy an advantage similar to that of an insulated 
situation. Europe is at a great distance from us. Her 
colonies in our vicinity will be likely to continue too much 
disproportioned in strength to be able to give us any dan- 
gerous annoyance. Extensive military establishments can- 
not, in this position, be necessary to our security. But, if 
vv-e should be disunited, and the integral parts should either 
remain separated, or, which is most probable, should be 
thrown together into two or three confederacies, we should 
be, in a shoct course of time, in the predicament of the 
continental powers of Europe. Our liberties would be a 
prey to the means of defending ourselves against the 
wabitioa end jealousy of each other. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 245 

This is an liea not superficial or futile, hui «!olid and 
weighty. It deserves the most serious and miture consid- 
eration of every prudent and honest man, of \^hatever par- 
ty. If such men will make a firm and solemn pause, and 
meditate dispassionately on its importance ; if they wil 
contemplate it in all its attitudes, and trace it to all its con- 
sequences, they will not hesitate to part with trivial objec- 
tions to a constitution, the rejection of which would, in all 
probability, put a final period to the union. The airy phan- 
toms, that now flit before the distempered imaginations of 
some of its adversaries, would then quickly give place to 
more substantial prospects of dangers, real, certain, and 
extremely formidable 



Sports on JVew Year's day. — Paulding. 

" Cold and raw the nor^h wi* ''s blow. 

Bleak in the morning early 
All the hills are covered witn snow, 

And winter's now come fairly." 

Winter, with silver locks and sparkling icicles, now 
gradually approached, under cover of his north-west winds, 
his pelting storms, cold, frosty mornings, and bitter, freez- 
ing nights. And here we will take occasion to express our 
obligations to the popular author of the Pioneers, for the 
pleasure we have derived from his happy delineations of 
the progress of our seasons, and the successive changes 
which mark their course. All that remember their youth- 
ful days in the country, and look hack with tender, melan- 
choly enjoyment upon their slippery gambols on the ice, 
their Christmas pies, and nut-crackings by the cheerful 
fireside, will read his pages with a gratified spirit, and 
thank him heartily for having refreshed their memory 
with the half-effaced recollections of scenes and manners, 
labours and delights, which, in the progress of Time, and 
the changes which every where mark his course, will, in 
some future age, perhaps, live only in the touches of hig 
pen. If, in the course of our history, we should chance 
to dwell upon scenes somewhat similar to those he de 
21* 



246 COMMOiN'-PLACE BOOi^ OF PROSE. 

scribes, or to mark the varying tints of our seasons witV 
a sameness of colouring, let us not be stigmatized with 
Dorrowing from him, since it is next to impossible to be 
true to nature, without seeming to have his sketches in oui 
eye. 

The holydays, those wintry blessings, which cheer the 
heart of young and old, and give to the gloomy depths of 
winter the life and spirit of laughing^, jolly spring, were 
now near at hand. The chopping-knife gave token of good- 
Jy minced pies, and the bustle of the kitchen afforded shrew(J 
indications of what was coming by and by. The celebra- 
ti">ii of the new year, it is well known, came originallj 
from the northern nations of Europe, who still keep uf 
many of the practices, amusements, and enjoyments, known 
to their ancestors. The Heer Piper valued himself upon 
being a genuine northern man, and, consequently, held the 
winter holydays in special favour a. id affection. In addi- 
tion to this hereditary attachment to ancient customs, it was 
shrewdly suspected, that his zeal in celebrating these good 
old sports was not a little quickened, in consequence of his 
mortal antagonist, William Penn, having hmted, in the 
course of their controversy, that the practice of keeping 
holydays savoured not only of Popery, but paganism. 

Before the Heer consented to sanction the projects ol' 
Dominie Kanttwell for abolishing sports and ballads, he 
stipulated for full liberty, on the part of himself and his 
people of Elsingburgh, to eat, drink, sing and frolic as much 
as they liked, during the winter holydays. In fact, the 
Dominie made no particular opposition to this suspension 
of his blue-laws, being somewhat addicted to good eating 
and drinking, whenever the occasion justified ; that is to 
say, whenever such accidents came in his way. 

It had long been the custom with Governor Piper to 
usner in the new year with a grand supper, to which the 
Dominie, the members of the council, and certain of the 
most respectable burghers, were always bidden. This 
year, he determined to see the old year out, and the new 
one in, as the phrase was, having just heard of a great vic- 
tory gained by the Bulwark of the Protestant Religion, the 
immortal Gustavus Adolphus ; which, though it happened 
Dearly four years before, had only now reached the village 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. S247 

of Elsingburgh. Accordingly, the Snow Ball Bomble was 
set to work in the cooking of a mortal supper ; which, 
agreeably to the taste of West Indian epicures, she sea- 
soned with such enormous quantities of red pepper, that 
whoever ate was obliged to drink, to keep his mouth from 
getting on fire, like unto a chimney. 

Exactly at ten o'clock, the guests sat down to the table 
where they ate and drank to the success of the Protestant 
cause, the glory of the great Gustavus, the downfall of 
Popery and the Quakers, with equal zeal and patriotism 
The instant the clock struck twelve, a round was fired from 
the fort, and a vast and bottomless bowl, supposed to be the 
identical one in which the famous wise men of Gotham 
went to sea, was brought in, filled to the utmost brim with 
smoking punch. The memory of the departed year, and 
the hopes of the future, were then drank in a special bum- 
per, after which the ladies retired, and noise and fun be- 
came the order of the night. The Heer told his great 
story of having surprised and taken a whole picket-guard, 
i:nder the great Gustavus ; and each of the guests con- 
tributed his tale, taking special care, however, not to outdc 
their host in the marvellous, — a thing which always put the 
Governor out of humour. 

Counsellor Langfanger talked wonderfully about puMic 
improvements ; Counsellor Varlett sung, or rather roart-d, 
a hundred verses of a song in praise of Rhenish wine ; 
and Othman Pfegel smoked and tippled, till' he actually 
came to a determination of bringii.g matters to a crisis with 
the fair Christina the very next day. Such are the won- 
der-working powers of hot punch ! As for the Dominie, 
he departed about the dawn of day, in such a plight, that, 
if it had not been impossible, we should have suspected 
him of being, as it were, a little overtaken with the said 
punch. To one or two persons, who chanced to see him, 
he actually appeared to stagger a little ; but such was the 
stout faith of the good Dominie's parishioners, that neither 
of these worthy fellows would believe his own eyes suffi- 
ciently to state these particulars. 

A couple of hours' sleep sufficed to disperse the vapours 
of punch and pepper-pot ; for heads in those days were 
much harder than now, and the Heer, as well as his rois- 



248 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

tering companions, rose betimes to give and receive the 
compliments and good wishes of the season. The morning 
was still, clear, and frosty. The sun shone with the lus- 
tre, though not with the warmth, of summer, and his bright 
beams were reflected, with indescribable splendour, from 
the glassy, smooth expanse of ice, that spread across, and 
up and down the broad river, far as the eye could see. 
The smoke of the village chimneys rose straight into the 
air, looking like so many inverted pyramids, spreading 
gradually broader and broader, until they melted away, 
^nd mixed imperceptibly with ether. Scarce was the sun 
above the horizon, when the village was alive with ro?y 
boys and girls, dressed in their new suits, and going forth 
with such warm anticipations of happiness, as time and ex- 
perience imperceptibly fritter away into languid hopes, or 
strengthening apprehensions. " Happy New Year I" came 
from every mouth and every heart. Spiced beverages 
and lusty cakes were given away with liberal, open hand ; 
every body was welcomed to every house ; all seemed to 
forget their little heart-burnings and disputes of yore ; all 
seemed happy, and all were so ; and the Dominie, who al- 
ways wore his coat with four great pockets on new-year 
day, came home and emptied them seven times of loads 
of new-year cookies. 

When the gay groups had finished their rounds in the 
village, the ice in front was seen all ahve with the small 
fry of Elsingburgh, gamboling and skating, sliding and 
tumbling, belter skelter, and making the frost-bit ears of 
winter glad with the sounds of mirth and revelry. In one 
place was a group playing at hurley, with crooked sticks, 
with which they sometimes hit the ball, and sometimes 
each other's shins ; in another, a knot of sliders, following 
in a row, so that, if the foremost fell, the rest were sure to 
tumble over him. A little farther might be seen a few, that 
had the good fortune to possess a pair of skates, luxuriat- 
ing in that most graceful of all exercises, and emulated by 
some half a dozen little urchins, with smooth bones fas- 
tened to their feet, in imitation of the others, skating away 
with a gravity and perseverance worthy of better imple- 
ments. All was rout, laughter, revelry and happiness; 
and that day the icy mirror of the noble Delaware reflect 



COMMOxN'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 249 

ed as light hearts as ever beat together in the new world. 
At twelve o'clock, the jolly Heer, according to his imme- 
morial custom, went forth from the edge of the river, dis- 
tributing apples, and other dainties, together with handsful 
of wampum, which, rolling away on the ice in different di- 
rections, occasioned innumerable contests and squabbles 
among the fry, whose disputes, tumbles, and occasional 
buffetings for the prizes, were inimitably ludicrous upon 
the slippery element. Among the most obstreperous and 
mischievous of the crowd was that likely fellow Cupid, 
who made more noise, and tripped up more heels, that day, 
than any half a dozen of his cotemporaries. His voice 
could be heard above all the rest, especially after i^e arri- 
val of the Heer, before whom he seemed to think it his 
duty to exert himself, while his unrestrained, extravagant 
laugh, exhibited that singular hilarity of spirit, which dis- 
tinguishes the deportment of the African slave from the 
invariable gravity of the free red man of the western 
world. 

All day, and until after the sun had set, and the shadows 
of night succeeded, the sports of the ice continued, and the 
merry sounds rung far and near, occasionally interrupted 
by those loud noises, which sometimes shoot across the ice 
like a rushing earthquake, and are occasioned by its crack- 
ing, as the water rises or falls. 



Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bill." — 

JOSIAH QUIJVCY, JUN. 

Thus, my countrymen, from the days of Gardiner and 
Morton, Gorges and Mason, Randolph and Cranfield, down 
to the present day, the inhabitants of this northern region 
have constantly been in dangers and troubles, from foes 
open and secret, abroad and in their bosom. Our freedom 
lias been the object of envy, and to make void the charter 
of our liberties the work and labour of an undiminished 
race of villains One cabal having failed of success, new 
coiJ.spirators have risen, and what the first could not make 
"vMd," the next "humbly desired to revoke." To thif 



250 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

purpose oue falsehood after another hath heen fabricatct! 
and spread abroad with equal turpitude and equal eflFronte- 
Ty. That minute detail, which would present actors now 
on the stage, is the province of History. She, inexorably 
severe towards the eminently guilty, will delineate their 
characters with the point of a diamond ; and, thus blazon- 
ed in the face of day, the abhorrence and execrations of 
mankind will consign them to an infamous immortality. 

So great has been the credulity of the British court from 
the beginning, or such hath been the activity of falte 
brethren, that no tale inimical to the Northern Colonies, 
however false or absurd, but what hath found credit with 
the administration, and operated to the prejudice of the 
country. Thus it was told and believed in England, that 
we were not in earnest in the expedition against Canada 
at the beginning of this century, and that the country did 
every thing in its power to defeat the success of it, and 
tbat the misfortune of that attempt ought to be wholly at- 
tributed to the Northern Colonies : while nothing could be 
more obvious, than that New England had exhausted her 
youngest blood, and all her treasures, in the undertaking ; 
and that every motive of self-preserration, happiness and 
safety must have operated to excite these provinces to the 
most spirited and persevering measures against Canada. 

The people, who are attacked by bad men, have a testi- 
mony of their merit, as the constitution, which is invade 
by powerful men, hath an evidence of its value. The 
path of our duty needs no minute delineation ; it lies level 
to the eye. Let us apply, then, like men sensible of its: 
importance, and determined on its fulfilment. The inroads 
on our public liberty call for reparation ; the wrongs we 
have sustained call for justice. That reparation and that 
justice may j'et be obtained by union, spirit and firmness. 
But to divide and conquer was the maxim of the devil in 
the garden of Eden ; and to disunite and enslave hath 
been the principle of all his votaries from that period to the 
present. The crimes of the guilty are to them the cords 
of association, and dread of punishment the indissoluble 
Dond of union. The combinations of public robbers ought, 
therefore, to ceme 'J patriots and heroes : and, as the former 
plot and conspire lo undermine and destroy the common 



COMSiON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 251 

wealth, the latter ought to form a compact for oppogitioa,— 
a band of vengeance. 

What insidious arts, and what detestable practices, have 
been used to deceive, disunite and enslave the good peo- 
ple of this continent ! The mystic appellations of loyalty 
and allegiance, the venerable names of government and 
good order, and the sacred ones of piety and public virtue, 
have been alternately prostituted to that abominable pur- 
pose. All the windings and guises, subterfuges and doub- 
lings, of which the human soul is susceptible, have toeeu 
displayed on the occasion. But secrets, which were thought 
impenetrable, are no longer hid ; characters deeply dis- 
guised are openly revealed ; and the discovery of gross 
impostors hath generally preceded but a short time their 
utter extirpation. 

Be not again, my countrymen, " easily captivated with 
the appearances only of wisdom and piety, — professions 
of a regard to liberty, and of a strong attachment to the 
public interest." Your fathers have been explicitly 
charged with this folly by one of their posterity. Avoid 
this and all similar errors. Be cautious against the de- 
ception of .appearances. " By their fruits ye shall know 
them," was the saying of one, who perfectly knew the 
numan heart. Judge of affairs which concern social hap- 
piness by facts : judge of man by his deeds. For it is very 
certain, that pious zeal for daj^s and times, for mint and 
cumin, hath often been pretended by those who were in- 
fidels at bottom ; and it is as certain, that attachment to the 
dignity of government and the king's service, hath often 
flowed from the mouths of men, who harboured the dark- 
est machinations against the true end of the former, and 
were destitute of every right principle of loyalty to the 
latter. Hence, then, care and circumspection are neces- 
sary branches of political duty. And, as " it is much easier 
to restrain liberty from running into licentiousness, than 
power from swelling into tyranny and oppression," so much 
more caution and resistance are required against the over- 
bearing of rulers, than the extravagance of the people. 

To give no more authority to any order of state, and to 
place no greater public confidence in any man, than is 
necessary for the generi" welfare, may be considered hy 



2-52 C03IM0N-PLACE LOOK OF PRuSE. 

the people as an important point of policy. But though 
craft and hypocrisy are prevalent, yet piety and virtue have 
a real existence : duplicitj- and political imposture abound, 
yet benevolence and public spirit are not altogether ban- 
iihed the world. As wclves wiQ appear in sheep's cj; th- 
ing, so superlative knaves and parricides will assume the 
vesture of the man of virtue and patriotism. 

These things are permitted by Providence, no doubt, for 
wise and good reasons. Man was created for a rational, 
and was designed for an active being. His faculties of in- 
telligence and force were given him for use. "When the 
wolf, therefore, is found devouring the flock, no hierarchy 
forbids a seizure of the victim for sacrifice ; so, also, when 
dignified impostors are caught destroying those whom their 
aits deceive, though their stations destined them to pi-o- 
tect, — the sabre of justice flashes righteousness at the 
rtroke of execution. 

Yet be not amused, my countrymen ! The extirpation 
of bondage and the re -establishment of freedom are not of 
eisy acquisition. The worst passions of the human heart 
and the most subtle projects of the human mind, are leagued 
against you ; and principahties and powers haj-e acceded to 
the combination. Trials and conflicts you must, therefore, 
endure ; hazards and jeopardies of life and fortune will at- 
tend the struggle. Such is the fate of all noble exertions tor 
public liberty and social happiness. Enter not the lists with- 
out thought and consideration, lest you arm with timidity, 
and combat with irresolution. Having engaged in the con- 
flict, let nothing discourage your vigour, or repel your perse- 
verance. Remember that submission to the yoke of bondage 
is the worst that can befall a people, after the most fierce 
and unsuccessful resistance. Wliat can the misfortunes of 
vanquishment take away, which despotism and rapine would 
spare ? " It had been easy," said the great lawgiver Solon 
to the Athenians, " to repress the advances of tyranny, 
and prevent its establishment ; but, now it is e- tablished 
and cfrown to some height, it would be more glorious to de- 
molish it." But nothing glorious is accompUshed, nothing 
great is attained, nothing valuable is secured, without mag- 
nanimity of mind, and devotion of heart to the sei vice. Bru- 
tus-like, therefore, dedicate yourselves at this day to tha 



COMa ON-PLACE CUOK OF PROSE. 253 

service of you country ; and henceforth live a life of lib- 
erty and ^lory. " On the ides of March," — said the great 
and good man to his friend Cassius, just before the battle 
of Pbilippi, — " on the ides of March I devoted my life to 
my country, and since that time I have lived a life of lib- 
erty and glory." 

Inspired with public virtue, touched with the wrongs, 
and indignant at the insults, offered his country, the high- 
spirited Cassius exhibits an heroic example ; — " Resolved 
as we are," — replied the hero to his friend, — " resolved as 
we are, let us march against the enemy ; for, though we 
should not conquer, we have nothing to fear." 

Spirits and genii like these rose in Rome, and have since 
adorned Britain ; such also will one day make glorious this 
more western world. America hath in store her Bruti and 
Cassii — her Hampdens and Sydneys — patriots and heroes, 
who will form a band of brothers ; — men, who will have 
memories and feelings, courage and swords, — courage, that 
sliall inflame their ardent bosoms till their hands cleave 
to their swords, and their swords to their enemies' hearts. 



JVecessity of Union between the States. — Jay. 

It has often given me pleasure to observe that indepen- 
dent America was not composed of detached and distant 
territories, but that one connected, fertile, wide-spreading 
country was the portion of our western sons of liberty. 
Providence has, in a particular manner, blessed it with a 
variety of soils and productions, and watered it with innu- 
merable streams for the delight and accommodation of its 
inhabitants. A succession of navigable waters forms a 
kind of chain round its borders, as if to bind it together ; 
while the most noble rivers in the world, running at con- 
venient distances, present them with highways for the easy 
communication of friendly aids, and the mutual transporta- 
tion and exchange of their various commodities. 

With equal pleasure I have as often taken notice, that 
Providence has been pleased to give this one connected 
country to one united people ; a people descended from the 
22 



254 COMMOX-PLACC EliOK OF PROSE. 

same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the 
same religion, attached to the same principles of govern- 
ment, very similar in their manners and customs ; and whO; 
by their joint counsels, arms and efforts, fighting side bj 
side, through a long and bloody war, have nobly estaiblish- 
ed their general liberty and independence. 

This country and this people seem to have been made 
for each other ; and it appears as if it were the design of 
Providence, that an inheritance so proper and convenient 
for a band of brethren united to each other by the strong- 
est ties, should never be spkt into a number of unsocial, 
jealous and alien sovereignties. 

Similar sentiments have hitherto prevailed among all 
orders and denominations of men among us. To all gen- 
eral purposes we have uniformly been one people — each 
individual citizen every where enjoying the same national 
rights, privileges and protection. As a ration we have 
made peace and war ; as a nation we have vanquished our 
common enemies ; as a nation we have formed alliances, 
and made treaties, and entered into various compacts and 
conventions with foreign states. 

A strong sense of the value and blessings of union in- 
duced the people, at a very early period, to institute a fed- 
eral government in order to preserve and perpetuate i 
They formed it almost as soon as they had a political exis 
ence ; nay, at a time when their hal ;ations were in 
flames, when many of them were bleeding in the field, 
and when the progress of hostility and desolation left little 
room for those calm and mature inquiries and reflections, 
which must ever precede the formation of a wise and well- 
balanced government for a free people. It is not to be 
wondered, that a government instituted in times so inauspi- 
cious should, on experiment, be found greatly deficient, 
and inadequate to the purpose it was intended to answer. 

This intelligent people perceived and regretted these de- 
fects. Still continuing no less attached to union than ena- 
moured of liberty, they observed the danger, which im- 
mediately threatened the former, and more remotely the 
latter , and, being persuaded that ample security for both 
could only be found in a national government more wisely 
Saraed, they, as ^ Uh one voice, convened the late conven 



COMMON-PLACE B 30K OF PROSE. 25d 

tion at Philadelphia, to take that important subject under 
consideration. 

This convention, composed of men who possessed the 
confidence of the people, and many of whom had become 
highly distinguished for their patriotism, virtue and wis- 
dom, in times which tried the souls of men, undertook the 
arduous task. In the mild season of peace, with minds 
unoccupied by other subjects, they passed many months in 
cool, uninterrupted and daily consultations. And finally, 
without having been awed by power, or influenced by any 
passion except love for their country, they presented and 
recommended to the people the plan produced by their 
joint and very unanimous counsels. 

It is not yet forgotten, that well-grounded apprehensions 
of imminent danger induced the people of America to form 
the memorable congress of 1774. That body recommend- 
ed certain measures to their constituents, and the event 
proved their wisdom ; it yet is fresh in our memories how 
soon the press began to teem with pamphlets and weekly 
papers against those very measures. Not only many of 
the officers of government, who obeyed the dictates of per- 
sonal interest, but others, from a mistaken estimate of con- 
sequences, from the undue influence of ancient attach- 
ments, or whose ambition aimed at objects which did not 
correspond with the public good, were indefatigable in their 
endeavours to persuade the people to reject the advice of 
that patriotic congress. Many, indeed, were deceived 
and deluded, but the great majority reasoned and decid- 
ed judiciously ; and happy they are in reflecting that they 
did so. 

But if the people at large had reason to confide in the 
men of that congress, few of whom had then been fully 
tried or generally known, still greater reason have they 
now to respect the judgment and advice of the convention ; 
for it is well known that some of the most distinguished 
members of that congress, who have been since tried and 
;ustly approved for patriotism and abilities, and who have 
grown old in acquiring political information, were also mem- 
bers of this convention, and carried into it their accumulat« 
ed knowledge and experience. 



Z56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

It is worthy of remark, that not only the first, hut everj 
succeeding congress, as well as the late convention, have 
joined with the people in thinking that the prosperity of 
America depended on its union. To preserve and perpetuate 
it was the great object of the people in forming that con- 
vention ; and it is also the great object of the plan, which 
the convention has advised them to accept. With what 
p-ropriety therefore, or for what good purposes, are attempts 
at this particular period made by some men to depreciate 
the importance of the union ? — or why is it suggested, that 
three or four confederacies would be better than one ? I 
am persuaded in my own mind, that the people have always 
thought right on this subject, and that their universal and 
uniform attachment to the cause of the union rests on great 
and weighty reasons. 

They who promote the idea of substituting a number of 
distinct confederacies in the room of the plan of the conven- 
tion, seem clearly to foresee, that the rejection of it would put 
the continuance of the union in the utmost jeopardy. That 
certainly would be the case ; and I sincerely wish it may 
be as clearly foreseen by every good citizen, that, whenever 
the dissolution of the union arrives, America will have 
reason to exclaim, in the words of the poet, — ^' Farewell, 
a long farewell, to all my greatness !" 



Character of Hamilton. — Ames. 

Mkn- of the most elevated minds have not always the 
readiest discernment of character. Perhaps he was some- 
times too sudden and too lavish in bestowing his confidence : 
his manly spirit, disdaining artifice, suspected none. But, 
while the power of his friends over him seemed to have 
no limits, and really had none, in respect to those things 
which were of a nature to be yielded, no man, not the Ro- 
man Cato himself, was more inflexible on every point that 
touched, or only seemed to touch, his integrity and honour. 
With him it was not enough to be unsuspected ; his bosom 
wrould have glowed like a furnace at its own whispers of 
*eproach. Mere purity would have seemed to hi/n below 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 257 

praise ; and such were his habits, and such his nature, that 
the pecuniary temptations, which many others can only 
with great exertion and self-denial resist, had no attrac- 
tions for him. He was very far from obstinate ; yet as his 
triends assailed his opinions with less profound thought than 
he had devoted to them, they were seldom shaken by dis- 
cussion. He defended them, however, with as much mild- 
ness as force, and evinced that, if he did not yield, it was 
not for want of gentleness or modesty. 

His early life we pass over ; though his heroic spirit in 
(he army has furnished a theme that is dear to patriotism, 
and will be sacred to glory. 

In all the different stations, in which a life of active use- 
fulness has placed him, we find him not more remarkably 
t istinguished by the extent, than by the variety and versa- 
t\lity, of his talents. In every place, he made it apparent, 
that no other man could have filled it so well ; and in times 
of critical importance, in which alone he desired employ- 
ment, his services were justly deemed absolutely indispen- 
sable. As secretary of the treasury, his was the powerful 
spirit that presided over the chaos. 

" Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar 
Stood ruled." 

Indeed, in organizing the federal government in 1789, 
every man, of either sense or candour, will allow, the diffi- 
culties seemed greater than the first-rate abilities could sur- 
mount. The event has shown that his abilities were great- 
er than those difficulties. He surmounted them ; and 
Washington's administration was the most^wise and benef- 
icent, the most prosperous, and ought to be the most pop- 
ular, that ever was intrusted with the affairs of a nation. 
Great as was Washington's merit, much of it in plan, 
much in execution, will of course devolve upon his mm- 
istsr. 

As a lawyer, his comprehensive gemus reached the 
fjiinciples of his profession : he compassed its extent, he 
fathomed its profound, perhaps, even more familiarly ai J 
easily ihan the rules of its practice. With most men Ic w 
13 a trade : with him it was a science 
22* 



B5S COM.M0^■-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

As i statesman, he was not more distinguished for the 
great exter* of h's views, than by the caution with which 
he^providec against impediments, and the watchfulness of 
his care over the right and hberty of the subject. In none 
of the many revenue bills which he framed, though com- 
mittees reported them, is there to be found a single clause 
that savours of despotic power ; not one that the sagest 
champions of law and liberty would, on that ground, hesi- 
tate to approve and adopt. 

It is rare that a man, who owes so much to nature, de- 
scends to seek more from industry ; but he seemed to de- 
pend on industry as if nature had done nothing for him. 
His habits of investigation were very remarkable ; his 
mind seemed to cling to his subject till he had exhausted 
it. Hence the uncommon superiority of his reasoning 
powers — a superiority' that seemed to be augmented from 
every source, and to be fortified by every auxiliary — learn- 
ing, taste, wit, imagination and eloquence. These were 
embellished and enforced by his temper and manners, by 
his fame and his virtues. It is difficult, in the midst of 
such various excellence, to say in what particular the ef- 
fect of his greatness was most uianifest. No man more 
promptly discerned truth ; no man more clearly displayed 
it : it was not merely made visible, — it seemed to come 
bright with illumination frotu his lips. But, prompt and 
clear as he was, — fervid as Demosthenes, like Cicero fiiU 
of resource, — he was not less remarkable for the copious- 
ness and completeness of his argument, that left Urtle for 
cavil, and nothing for doubt. Some men take their strong- 
est argument as a weapon, and use no other ; but he left 
nothing to be inquired for — nothing to be answered. He 
not only disarmed his adversaries of their pretexts and ob- 
jections, but he stripped them of all excuse for having 
urged them ; he confounded and subdued as well as con- 
vinced. He indemnified them, however, by making his 
discussion a complete map of his subject ; so that his 
opponents might, indeed, feel ashamed of their mistakes, 
but they could not repeat them. In fact it was no com- 
mon effort that could preserve a really able antagonist from 
becoming his convert ; for the truth, which his researches 
10 distinctly presented to the understanding of others, was 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 

rendered almost irresistibly commanding and impressive ly 
the love and reverence, which, it was ever apparent, he 
profoundly cherished for it in his own. While patriotism 
glowtid in his heart, wisdom blended in his speech her 
authority with her charms. 

Unparalleled as were his services, they were neverthe- 
less no otherwise requited than by the applause of all good 
men, and by his own enjoyment of the spectacle of that 
national prosperity and honour, which was the effect of 
them. After facing calumny, and triumphantly surmount- 
ing an unrelenting persecution, he retired from office with 
clean though empty hands, as rich as reputation and an 
unblemished integrity could make him. 

The most substantial glory of a country is in its virtu- 
ous great men : its prosperity will depend on its docility to 
learn from their example. That nation is fated to ignominy 
and servitude, for which such men have lived in vain. 
Power may be seized by a nation that is yet barbarous; 
and wealth may be enjoyed by one that it finds or renders 
sordid : the one is the gift and the sport of accident, and 
the other is the sport of power. Both are mutable, and 
have passed away without leaving behind them any other 
memorial than ruins that offend taste, and traditions that 
baffle conjecture. But the glory of Greece is imperisha- 
ble, or will last as long as learning itself, which is its mon- 
ument : it strikes an everlasting root, and bears perennial 
blossoms on its grave. The name of Hamilton would have 
honoured Greece in the age of Aristides. May Heaven, 
the guardian of our liberty, grant that our country may be 
fruitful of Hamiltons, and faithful to their glory ! 



Morality of Poetiy. — George Bancroft. 

If poetry is the spirit of God within us, that spirit must 
be a pure one ; if it is the strongest and most earnest ex- 
pression of generous enthusiasm, it must be allied with the 
noblest feelings of human nature. Genius can, it is true, 
of itself, attract attention ; but it cannot win continued and 
universal admiration, except in alliance with virtue. Who 



£60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSii 

ran measure the loss, which the world would sustain, if 
the sublimest work of Milton were to be struck from the 
number of living books ? Yet the world would be the 
gainer, if Don Juan were as if it had never been written. 
The one poet cherishes loftiness of purpose, and tends to 
elevate his reader to a kindred magnanimity ; while the 
other exposes, it may be with inimitable skill and graphic 
power, the vices and weaknesses of man, and so tends t" 
degrade the mind to the level which he establishes for the 
race. But we go to poetry as a relief and a support. We 
need no books to ring changes to us on man's selfishness ; 
and if at times, in a moment of despondency or disappoint- 
3ient, when the confused judgment cannot rightly estimate 
the progress of good amidst the jar of human passions, and 
the colUsion of human interests, we forget the dignity- of 
our nature, and revile it, the poet should reinstate it in our 
favour, and make us forget our disgust with the world. 

"While on this subject, we cannot forbear to remark on 
that tendency to morahze, which many mistake in them- 
selves for wise observation. True, to the eye of a con- 
templative man, books may be found in the running brooks, 
and sermons in stones ; but it is the mark of an inferior 
mind to be constantly repeating the common-places of mo- 
rality : one, who does it often, is sure to be esteemed by 
his neighbours as a tedious proser ; and to have this strain 
of puny thinking put into verse, and set before us as suo- 
lime, is really intolerable. In that which is to produce a 
grand effect, every thing must be proportionably grand. 
The historians of nature tell us, that gold is diifused 
throughout creation, may bt; extracted from the stones we 
tread upon, and enters into the composition of the plants cu 
which we feed. But it is a very slow and troublesome 
process to extract it from most stones and plants ; and, after 
all, it is obtained in &~ small quantities, that it is not worth 
the trouble it costs. And it may be so with the elements 
of poetry. They exist every where ; the dreams of the 
drunkard may sometimes have a gleam of bright fancy ; a 
mother, setting out in pursuit of in idiot boy, who has run 
away on an ass, may have V3ry proper thoughts, and weep 
as sincerely as Andromache herself; and the reformation 
»f a knave like Peter Bell may be psychologically as re- 



COx^IMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 261 

markable as the downfall of Macbeth, the scepticism of 
Hamlet, the madness of Lear. But still it is not the thing 
we want. To the observer of the human mind, the mere 
collector of facts, one man's experience may, offer nearly 
as much as another's ; but cannot, in the same degree, 
promote the purposes of the poet. At a ball in any village 
in the country, there are probably the self-same passioats 
at work, as were ever called into action on similar occa- 
sions. The beauty and pride of a country town, dancing 
to an imperfect band, may afford illustrations of all the 
moral phenomena of vanity, admiration and love, the 
hours whirled away very agreeably in lively dances, and 
blushes excited by the praise of loveliness. But aH this 
is a common, every day sort of business ; and hardiy any 
one would think of weaving it into poetry. But when the 
imagination is wrought up by the expectation of an ap 
preaching battle ; when the capital of Belgium has gather- 
ed its own beauty and the chivalry of England ; when the 
blow, that is to decide the destiny of empires, is suspended 
for a season, while youth and pleasure revel in careless 
gayety, till they are recalled from the charm that creeps 
over the senses by a peal, which is the death-larum of 
thousands, — we find the scenes of the ball room contribut- 
ing to heighten the power and the splendour of poetry. 
If we hear of a blind boy, who goes to sea in a shell, we 
should think the story would make a very curious and 
proper paragraph for the miscellaneous department of a 
newspaper, provided the fact be well authenticated ; but 
what is there of poetry about it ?* If we were to meet a 
little girl, who had lost her pet lamb, it would be proper 
to be extremely sorry ; and the matter is a fit one for pro- 
portionate sympathy. But these ^are trivial things; they 
hardly claim much attention in life ; they are of no gen- 
eral interest for the exercise of the imagination. The 
poet must exalt and satisfy the mind ; must fill us witli 
glorious aspirations and lofty thoughts ; must lead us out 



* Trifling as tliis incident might appear, if related in the com 
mon and desultory manner of a newspaper paragraph, it has yet 
been wrought, by tine genius of Wordsworth, into one of the most 
beautiful and natural p-eces of poetry which it has been our lot to meoi 
with.- Ed. 



262 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

through the high heaven of invention, and call up befoie 
us the master passions of man's mind in all their majesty ; — 
not show us the inside of a baby-house, nor furnish us with 
a comment on the catalogue of a toy-shop. 



The Consequences of Atheism. — Chaxnijvg. 

Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the 
extent of the support given by religion to every virtue 
No man, perhaps, is aware how niuch our moral and social 
sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con- 
science would become without the belief of a God ; how 
palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the 
sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; 
now suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and 
with what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruins, 
were the ideas of a Supreme Being, of accountableness, 
and of a future life, to be utterly erased from every mind. 
Once let men thoroughly believe, that they are the work 
and sport of chance ; that no Superior Intelligence con- 
cerns itself with human affairs ; that all their improve- 
ments perish forever at death ; that the weak have no 
guardian, and the injured no avenger 5 that there is no 
recompense for sacrifices to uprightness and the public 
good ; that an oath is unheard in heaven ; that secret 
crimes have no witness but the perpetrator ; that human 
existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing 
friend ; that this brief life is every thing to us, and death 
is total, everlasting extinction, — once let men thoroughly 
abandon religion, and who can conceive or describe the 
extent of the desolation which would follow ? 

We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym- 
pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might 
we believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, 
our torches could illuminate, and 'ur fires quicken and 
fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to 
awaken respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected 
tnsect of a day ? and what is he more, if atheism be true ? 
Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, an(J 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 263 

selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. 
Appetite, knowing no restraint, and poverty and sufFer- 
Jns:, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn on 
the restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, 
would be mocked and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A 
sordid self-interest would supplant every other feeling, and 
man would become in fact, what the theory of atheism 
declares him to be, a companion for brutes ! 



The blind Preacher. — Wirt. 

It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county 
of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horseg 
tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house in the forest, not far 
from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects 
before, in travelling through these States, I had no diffi- 
culty in understanding that this was a place of religious 
worship. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the 
duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curi- 
osity to hear the preacher cf such a wilderness, was not 
the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with 
his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very 
spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white 
linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all 
shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments 
ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. 

The first emotions that touched my breast were those of 
mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my 
feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more 
worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips 
of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of 
the sacrament; and his subject was, of course, the passion 
of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thou- 
sand times : I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little 
did I suppose that in the wild woods of America, I was to 
meet with a man, whose eloquence would give to thiji 
topic a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever be 
fore witnessed. 



264 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

As lie descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic 
symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solem- 
nity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, 
and my whole frame shiver. 

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; 
his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his cruci- 
fixion ; and his death. I knew the whole history ; but 
never until then had I heard the circumstances so select- 
ed, so arranged, so coloured ! It was all new ; and I seem- 
ed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enun- 
ciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every 
syllable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in 
unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of descrip- 
tion, that the original scene appeared to be at that moment 
acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the 
Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage 
We saw the buffet : my soul kindled with a flame of in- 
dignation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convul- 
sively clinched. 

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv- 
ing meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew, to the life, 
las blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice 
breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his 
enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do," — the voice of the preacher, which had all along 
faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being 
entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised 
his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and ir- 
repressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable 
The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and 
sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. 

It was sometime before the tumult had subsided, so far 
as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usu- 
al, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began 
to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For 
I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- 
ence down from the height to which he had wound them, 
without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, 
or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall 
But — no : the descent was as beautiful and sublime as th? 
Rlevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. 



COMMON-I'I-ACE BOOK OF PROSE. ^^65 

The first sentence, with which he broke the aAvful si- 
lence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died lik» 
a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God !" 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced 
by this short sentence, unless 5'ou could perfectly conceive 
the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis 
in the discourse. Never before did I completelj'' under- 
stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on 
delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable fig- 
ure of the preacher ; his blindness, constantly recalling to 
your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso- 
ciating with his performance the melancholy grandeur 
of their geniuses ; you are to imagine that you hear his 
slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice 
of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the 
-litch of passion and enthusiasm, to which tlie congregation 
were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, 
deathlike silence, which reigned throughout the house : 
the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his 
aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his 
tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which 
holds it, begins the sentence, " Socrates died like a phi- 
losopher" — then, pausing, raising his other hand, pressing 
them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy, to 
his breast, lifting his " sightless halls" to heaven, and 
pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but Je- 
sus Christ — like a God !" If he had been indeed and in 
truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been 
more divine. V/hatever I had been able to conceive of 
the sublimity of Massillon or the force of Bourdaloue, had 
fallen far short of the power vyhich I felt from the delivery 
of this simple sentence. 

If this description give you the impression, that this in- 
comparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical 
♦rick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have 
never seen, in any other orator, such a union of simplicity 
and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an ac- 
cent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment 
he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, loo 
solicitous, and, at the same time, too dignified, to stoop 10 
artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a 
23 



266 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style and 
substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite 
scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. 1 
v/as forcibly struck with a short yet beautiful character, 
which he drew of your learned and amiable countrynian, 
Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke of him, as if " his noble mind 
had, even before death, divested herself of all influence 
from his frail tabernacle of flesh ;" and called him, in hia 
peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, " a pure in- 
telligence : the link between men and angels." 

This man has been before my imagination almost ever 
since. A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the 
reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to 
imitate his quotation from Rousseau ; a thousand times I 
abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded, that 
his peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of 
soul, which nature could give, but which no human being 
could justly copy. As I recall, at this moment, several of 
his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide, with which 
my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of 
the emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's intrO' 
ductory picture of his Bard. 



The humble Man and the proud. — Thacher. 

Compare, then, the proud man with the man of hu- 
mility, and tell me which is the more dignified being. 
Pride, like humility, supposes an act of comparison. But 
the comparison of ihe proud man is not between hiinsclf 
and the standard of his duty ; between v/hat he is and what 
be ought to be ; but between himself and his fe!low-men. 
He looks around him, forgets liis own defects and weak- 
rp=ses, infirmities and sins, and because he finds, or iin- 
*gines he finds, in some respects, a little superiority to hia 
fellow-men — at the greatest it can be but a little — because 
he, one worm of the dust, believes himself to be somewhat 
more rich, more learned, more successful than another, he 
thinks this to be a sufficient ground for swelling with self- 
complacency, and regarding those around him with disdaic 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 267 

and contempt. The humble man, on the contrary, is sc 
full of the thought of the exceeding breavUh of the com 
mandments of God, and of that supreme excellence, to 
which his religion teaches him to aspire ; and he so con- 
stantly recollects the imperfection of his approaches to it, 
that eveiy idea of a vain-glorious comparison of himself 
with his neighbour dies away within him. He can only 
remember that God is every thing, and that in his august 
presence all distinctions are lost, and all human beings re- 
duced to the same level. Say, then, my friends ; is it not 
pride, that is so mean, so poor-spirited and low ? is it not 
pride, that is a mark of a little, and narrow, and feeble 
mind ? and is not huuiility alone the truly noble, the truly 
generous and sublime quality ? 

There is this further proof of the superior elevation of 
the humble man. The man of pride, with all his affected 
contempt of the world, must evidently estimate it very 
highly ; else, whence so much complacency at the idea of 
surpassing others? Whence that restless desire of dis- 
tinction, that passion for theatrical display, which inflames 
his heart, and occupies his whole attention ? Why is it 
that his strongest motive to good actions is their notoriety, 
and tliat he considers every worthy deed as lost, when it 
is not publicly displayed ? It is only because the world 
and the world's applause are every thing to him ; and that 
he cannot live but on the breath of popular favour. But 
the humble man, with all his real lowliness, has yet risen 
above the world. He looks for that honour, which cometh 
down from on high, and the whispers of worldly praise 
die away upon his ear. When his thoughts return from 
tne contemplation of the infinite excellence of God, and 
the future glories of virtue, the objects of this life appear 
reduced in their importance ; in the same Vt^ay as the land- 
scape around appears little and low to him, whose eye has 
been long directed to the solemn grandeur and wide mag- 
nificence of the starry heavens. I appeal to you, my 
friends, to decide on the comparative dignity of the char- 
acters of the proud and the humble man. I call on you 
to say, whether our blessed Master has given to huiniliij 
too high a rank in the scale of excellence. 



568 COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



The Son. — From " The Idle Man" — Richard Da.wa 

There is no virtue without a characteristic beauty tc 
make it particularly loved of the good, and to make the 
bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do what is right 
argues superior taste as well as morals ; and those, whose 
practice is evil, feel an inferiority of intellectual power and 
enjoyment, even where they take no concern for a prin- 
ciple. Doing well has something more in it than the 
fulfilling of a duty. It is a cause of a just sense of eleva- 
tion of character ; it clears and strengthens the spirits ; it 
gives higher reaches of thought ; it widens our benevo- 
lence, and makes the current of our peculiar affections 
swift and deep. 

A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was 
not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration 
of what our degradation would have been had we done 
otherwise. Certainly, it is a pleasant and a wise thing, 
then, to follow what is right, when we only go along with 
our affections, and take the easy way of the virtuous pro- 
pensities of our nature. 

The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as it may. 
It is not because of his integrity alone that, it relies on an 
honest man; but it has more confidence inhis judgment and 
wise conduct in the long run, than in the schemes of those 
of greater intellect, who go at large without any land- 
marks of principle. So that virtue seems of a double na- 
ture, and to stand oftentimes in the place of what we call 
talent. 

The reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is all right, 
Tor the honest man only falls in with the order of nature, 
which is grounded in truth, and will endure along with it. 
And such a hold has a good man upon the world, that, even 
where he has not been called upon to make a sacrifice to a 
principle, or to take a stand against wrong, but has merelj 
avoided running into vices, and suffered himself to bf 
borne along by the delightful and virtuous affections of jm 
vate life, and has found his pleasure in practising the dir- 
ties of home, — he is looked up to with respect, as well <.s 
"egarded with kindness. We attach certain notions of ve 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 269 

finement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment. The 
impression he makes on us is beautiful and pecuUar. Other 
men in his presence, though we have nothing to object to 
them, and though they may be very well in their way, af- 
fect us as lacking something — we can hardly tell what — ■ 
a certain sensitive delicacy of character and manner, 
without which they strike us as more or less vulgar. 

No creature in the world has this character so finely 
marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son — partic- 
ularly in his relation to his mother. Every little attention 
he pays her is not only an expression of filial attachment, 
and grateful acknowledgment of past cares, but is an 
evidence of a tenderness of disposition, which moves us the 
more, because not looked on so much as an essential prop- 
erty in a man's character, as an added grace, which is 
bestowed only upon a few. His regards do not appear like 
mere habits of duty, nor does his watchfulness of his 
mother's wishes seem like taught submission to her will. 
They are the native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing 
themselves amidst stern virtues and masculine energies 
like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are de- 
lightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary homage 
to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee is bent, and 
the heart of the mailed man laid bare. 

Feelings, that would seem to be at variance with each 
other, meet together and harmonize in the breast of a son. 
Every call of the mother which he answers to, and every 
act of submission which he performs, are not only so many 
acknowledgments of her authority, but, also, so many in- 
stances of kindness, and marks of protecting regard. The 
servant and defender, the child and guardian, are all min- 
gled in him. The world looks on him in this way ; and 
to draw upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the 
love of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is an ex- 
cellent son. 

In looking over some papers of a deceased acquaintance, 
[ found the following fragment. He had frequently spoken 
to me of the person whom it concerned, and who had been 
his school-fellow, I remember well his one day telling 
me, that, thinking the character of his friend, and some 
cnxumstances in his life, \« are of such a kind, that an in 
23^ 



270 COMMOx\-PLACE EOUK OF PROSE. 

teresting moral little story might be made from them, he 
had undertaken it ; but considering, as he was going on, 
that bringing the private character and feelings of a de- 
ceased friend before the world was something like sacrilege, 
though done under a fictitious name, he had stopped soon 
after beginning the tale : thdt he had laid it away amongst 
his papers, and had never looked at it again. 

As the person it concerns has been a long time dead, 
and no relation survives, I do not feel that there can be 
any improprietj^ in my now making it public. I give it 
as it was written, though evidently not revised by my 
friend. Though hastily put together, and beginning as 
abruptly as it ends, and with little of story, and no novelty, 
in the circumstances, yet there is a mournful tenderness 
in it, which, I trust will interest others in some portion 
as it did me. 



" The sun not set yet, Thomas ?" " Not quite, sir. It 
blazes through the trees on the hill yonder as if their 
branches were all on fire." 

Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his ha- 
Btill over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes towards 
the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had 
heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or 
two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being 
a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to 
himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in i^, 
that, except in relation to his own home, there were the 
eame vague and strange notions in his brain, concernino- 
the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign 
land. 

The main feeling, which this self-made world excited in 
him, was love, and, like most of his age, he had formed to 
himself a being suited to his own fancies. Tliis was tlie 
romance of life, and though men, with minds like his, make 
imagination to stand oftentimes in the place of real exist- 
ence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet, 
in domestic relations, which are so near, and usual, and 
private, they feel longer aud more deeply than those wha 
look upon their homes as only a better part of the world 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 271 

n^iich they belong to. Indeed, in affectionate and good 
men of a visionary cast, it is in some sort only realizing their 
hopes and desires, to turn them homeward. Arthur felt that 
it was so, and he loved his household the more that they 
gave him an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and 
attachments. 

Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in having a 
character so much like his own. For, though the cares and 
attachments of life had long ago taken place of a fanciful 
existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong 
enough to give to these something of the romance of her 
disposition. This had led to a more than usual openness 
and intimacy between Arthur and his mother, and now 
brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat togeth- 
er by the fire light, when he listened to her mild and melan 
choly voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the 
loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his 
faults, her affectionate look of approval when he had done 
well, her care that he should be a just man, and her moth- 
erly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, aP 
crowded into his mind, and he thought that every worldl; 
attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing. 

He had passed the night between violent, tumultuous 
grief, and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, 
with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his 
sick chamber for the first time, lie began his journey 
homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars, 
that were here and there over the sky, seemed to look 
down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon 
him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as 
the last faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every 
thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in 
tho! east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting 
upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The 
sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery 
of his misery. 

Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his 
eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. 
The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went 
on talking in a low, monotonous tone ; but Arthur only 
heird something sounding in his ears, «!carcely heeding 



272 COMMOX-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisome- 
ness from the motion of the carriage, but in all things 
else the day passed as a melancholy dream. 

Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have 
mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he 
shuddered through his whole frame, and then became sick 
and pale. He thought he knew the hill near him ; and, as 
they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and 
he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near 
his home. The river before him, reflecting the rich even- 
ing sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine. The 
birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, burst- 
ing into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in 
the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and 
cheerful, and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs 
struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to 
his heart. It was here his mother took her last leave of 
him, and blessed him. 

As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of 
strangeness, that every thing should be just as it was when 
he left it. There was an undefined thought floating in his 
mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change 
in all that he had been familiar with. But the boys were at 
their noisy games in the street, the labourers returning, 
talking together, from their work, and the old men sitting 
quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as 
he could, and bade Thomas hasten on. 

As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in 
about it, and there was a melanchoh'' gusty sound in the 
trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb 
He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy and still as a 
deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, captious step, 
over head. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister 
had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and 
threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering 
a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, " Is she 
alive ?" — he could not say, viy mother. " She is sleep- 
ing," answered his sister, " and must not know to-nighi 
that you are here ; she is too weak to bear it now." " I 
will go look at her then, while she sleeps," said he, draw- 
ing his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympatl y 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROsE. 273 

Had made him shed the first tears which had fallen fron 
him that day, and he was more composed. 

He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon 
him ; and, as he drew near his mother's bed-side, and look- 
ed on her pale, placid, and motionless face, he scarcely 
dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret commun- 
ion that the soul was holding with the world into which it 
was about to enter. The loss that he was about sulfering, 
and his heavy grief, were all forgotten in the feeling of a 
holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of in- 
visible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's 
lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He 
drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke 
It was the same gentle voice which he had known and 
felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left 
him — he sunk down — and his misery went over him like 
a flood. 

The next day, as soon as his mother became composed 
enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She 
stretched out her feeble hand, and turned towards him, v/ith 
a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a 
meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the 
tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon 
as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt 
at being spared to see him before she died. 

" My dear mother," said Arthur — but he could not go 
on. His voice was choked, his eyes filled with tears, and 
the agony of his soul was visible in his face. " Do not be 
so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss ol me. We are not to part 
for ever. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you 
have made my days Heaven, I know, will bless so good 
a son as you have been to me. You will have that conso- 
lation, my son, which visits but a few — you will be able tc 
look back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain 
only, but with a holy joy. And thmk hereafter of the peace 
of mind you give me, now that I am about to die, in the 
thought that I am leaving your sister to your love and care. 
So long as you live, she will find you a father and brother 
to her." She paused for a moment. " I have always felt 
that I could meet death with composure ; but I did not 
know," she said, with a tremulous voice, her lips quivering 



S~4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

— -' 1 did not know bow hard a thing it would be to eav* 
tay children, till now that the hour has come." 

After a litile while, she spoke of his father, and said, she 
had lived with the behef that he was mindful of her, anu 
\nih the conviction, wtieh grew stronger as death approach- 
ed, that she should meet him in another world. She said 
but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker every hour- 
Arthur sat by in silenci , holding her hand He saw Uiat she 
was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every 
now and then she opened her dull eye, and looked towarJs 
him, and endeavoured to smile. 

The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, and 
the melancholy and still twilight came on. Xorhing was 
heard but the ticking of the watch, telliag him with a re- 
sistless power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasp- 
ed, as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it was 
not for human strength to struggle against. 

It was now quite dark, and, by the pale light of the night- 
lamp in the chimney corner, the furniture in the room threw 
huge and uncouth figures over the wadls. All was unsub- 
stantial and visionary, and the shadowy ministers of death 
appeared gathering round, waiting the duty of the hour 
appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with 
superstitious awe : but the solemn elevation which a good 
man feels at the sight of the dying, took possession of him, 
and he became calm agj±i. 

The approach of death has so much which is exalting, 
that our grief is, for the time, forgotten. And could one, 
who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked 
upon the grave and grand repose of his countenance, he 
would hardly have known him. 

The hvid hue of death was fast spreading over his moth- 
ers face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her 
breathing. It grew quick and faint. — '-'My mother I" — 
She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him — a faint 
flush passed over her cheek — there was the sereiuty of 
an angel in her look — ^her hand just -pressed his. It was 
all over. 

His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sunk down froja 
its unearthly height ; and, with his face upon his mother's 
pill -tw, he wept like a child. He arose with a violent efibrt. 



COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 275 

and, stepping; into the adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt. 
'* It is past," .said he. " Is my sister asleep i — Well, then,, 
let her have rest ; she needs it." He then went to his 
own chcmber, and shut himself in. 

It is a .merciful thing that the intense suffering of sensi- 
tive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief brings 
on a torpor, and an indistinctness, and dimness, as from 
long watching. It is not till the violence of afflict'ion has 
subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room 
to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister 
to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clear- 
ly what has been torn away from our affections. It wag 
so with Arthur. Unconnected and strange thoughts, with 
melancholy, but half-formed images, were floating in his 
mind, and now and then a gleam of light would pass 
through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all 
was right again. His worn and tired feelings at last found 
rest in sleep. 

It is an impression, which we cannot rid ourselves of if 
we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has 
still a consciousness of our presence , that, though the com- 
mon concerns of the v/orld have no more to do with him, 
he has still a love and care of us. The face which we had 
so long been familiar with, when it was all life and motion, 
seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make 
it real to ourselves, that the body before us is not a living 
thing. 

Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in 
the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was 
as if her soul had been in paradise, and was now holding 
communion with pure spirits there, though it still abode in 
the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified by 
the pr.^sence of one to whom the other world had been 
laid open — as if under the love and protection of one m^le 
holy. The religious reflections that his mother had early 
taught him, gave him strength ; a spiritvial composure stole 
over him, and he found himself prepared to perform the 
last offices to the dead. 

Is 't not enough to see our friends die, and part with 
them for the remainder of our days ; to reflect thai w« 



2ib COilMON-FLACE BOOK OF FPvOSE. 

shall hear their voices no more, and that they will ne\et 
look on us again ; to see that turning- to corruption, which 
was but just now alive, and eloquent, and beautiful with 
all the sensations of the soul ? Are our sorrows so sacred 
and peculiar as to make the world as vanity to us, and the 
men of it as strangers ? and shall we not be left to our af- 
flictions for a few hours ? Must we be brought out at such 
a time to the concerned or careless gaze of those we know 
not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolations 
from acquaintances who will go away and forget it all ? 
Shall we not be suffered, a little while, a holy and healing 
communion with the dead r Must the kindred stillness 
and gloom of our dwelling be changed for the solemn show 
of the pall, the talk of the passers-by, and the broad and 
piercing hght of the common sun ? Must the ceremonies 
of the world wait on us even to the open graves of our 
friends ? 

When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and 
fixed eye, though his whole face was tremulous with the 
struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took her 
arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, undulating 
sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt a violent beatiug 
through his whole frame, which shook him that he reeled 
It was but a momentary weakness. He moved on, passing 
those who surrounded him, as if they had been shadows 
While he followed the slow hearse, there was a vacancy in 
his eye, as it rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly 
conscious of what was before him. His spirit was with his 
mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, and 
turned deadly pale ; but, sinking his head upon his breast, 
and drawing his hat over his face, he stood motionless as a 
statue till the service was over. 

He had gone through all that the forms of society requir- 
ed of him. For, as painful as the effort was, and as little 
suited as such forms were to his own thoughts upon the sub- 
ject, yet he could not do any thing that might appear to the 
world like a want of reverence and respect for his mother. 
The scene was ended, and the inward struggle over ; and 
now that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss 
came up full and distinctly before him. 



COMMON-PLACE 1]OOK OF PROSE. '^it 

It was a dreary and chilly evening when he returnet' 
home. When he entered the house from which his mothe: 
had ffoae for erer, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed 
him, as if his very abode had been deserted by every liv- 
ing thing. He walked into his mother's chamber. The 
naked bedstead, and the chair in which she used to sit, 
were all that was left in the room. As he threw himself 
back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness of his 
si'irit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which was 
not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he had watched 
over in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she 
lay before him in death, as if she could hear and answer 
Liin, had gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses 
to fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him tc 
tliink of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeav- 
ours brought this consolation ; and the little of life that a 
wasting disease left him, was past by him, when alone, in 
thoughtful tranquillity ; and amongst his friends he appear- 
ed with that gentle cheerfulness, which, before his mother's 
death, had been a part of his nature. 



JVeglect of foreign Literature in America. — Americak 
Quarterly Review. 

The curiosity of ournation in literature is not sufficient- 
ly expansive ; our public refuses its attention to works writ- 
ten for another hemisphere, and a different state of society. 
This i<! natural, but it is not wise. 

The facility of receiving enjoyment from a variety of 
sources is an advantage of high value. It is well to re- 
joice i.n every exhibition of genius. What should we think 
of the man, who not only clings to the pleasures rendered 
dear by habit, but denies that there are others to he set in 
comparison with them ? And yet we hear hasty judgments 
on the merits of whole classes of writers. Every mac 
has, indeed, the right to choose his own guides to the sum- 
mit of Olympus ; but we question the soundness of those 
who deny th; t tliere f^'e more ways than one. Such ar 
24 



27S COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PilOSE. 

epinioa could 1 e explained, only as the result of mei»- 
tal imbecility, of a narrowness that submits to the 
shackles of prejudice. Born and bred in a temperate 
zone, we all admire the loveliness of our landscape, where 
the graceful foliage of our trees is mingled with the rich 
verdure of our meadows, and the abundance of our har- 
vests. But shall we have no eye for other charms ? Shall a 
Swiss scene, where the glaciers enter the fertile valley, and 
winter and summer are seen side by side, have no power to 
please us ? or a scene beneath a soutaern sky, where the 
palm trees lift t^ oir heads in slender magnificence, the for- 
ests are alive With bird's, and glitter with the splendour of 
variegated plumage, and earth is gay with all the colours 
that gain their deep tints under a tropic sun ? The eye, 
that communes with nature, and understands it, discerns 
loveliness in all its forms. And shall we, who are certain- 
ly not incurious as to the concerns of this world, be indif- 
ferent to foreign letters ? ISIust we be so engrossed with 
the language and concerns of business, that we cannot lis- 
ten to the language of poetic inspiration ? And must we 
forever and unceasingly be deafened by the din of con- 
gressional rivalries ? Is there, between the acclamations 
and rebukes of partisans, and the hot warfare of canvass 
for oiSce, no happy moment of tranquillity, in which Learn- 
ing may raise her head fearlessly, and be respected, and 
the pursuits of contemplative life be cheered by the free 
expression of general approbation, and quickened into ex 
cellence by the benignity of an attentive nation ? We 
cannot as yet be said to have a national literature ; but 
we already have the promise of one, and the first fruits 
As the literary character of the country is developed, it 
should resemble our political institutions in liberalky. and 
jvj Iccine excellence from every quarter of the world. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 279 



Death a sublime and universal Moralist. — Sparks.* 

No object is so insignificant, no event so trivial, as not 
to carry vfiiYv it a moral and religious influence. The trees 
that spring out of the earth are moralists. They are em- 
blems of the life of man. They grow up ; they put on 
the garments of freshness and beauty. Yet these continue 
but for a time ; decay seizes upon the root and the trunk, 
and they gradually go back to their original elements. 
The blossoms that open to the rising sun, but are closed 
at night never to open again, are moralists. The seasons 
are moralists, teaching the lessons of vrisdom, manifesting 
the wonders of the Creator, and calling on man to reflect 
on his condition and destiny. History is a perpetual mor- 
alist, disclosing the annals of past ages, showing the im- 
potency of pride and greatness, the weakness of human 
power, the folly of human wisdom. The daily occurren- 
ces in society are moralists. The success or failure of en- 
terprise, the prosperity of the bad, the adversity of the 
good, the disappointed hopes of the sanguine and active, 
the sufferings of the virtuous, the caprices of fortune in 
every condition of life, all these are fraught with moral in- 
structions, and, if properly applied, will fix the power of 
religion in the heart. 

But there is a greater moralist still ; and that is. Death. 
Here is a teacher, who speaks in a voice, which none can 
mistake ; who comes with a power, which none can resist. 
Since we last assembled in this place as the humble and 
united worshippers of God, this stern messenger, this mys- 
terious agent of Omnipotence, has come among our num- 
bers, and laid his withering hand on one, whom we have 
been taught to honour and respect, whose fame was a na- 
tion's boast, whose genius was a brilliant spark from the 
ethereal fire, whose attainments were equalled only by the 
grasp of his intellect, the profoundness of his judgment, 
the exuberance of his fancy, the magic of his eloquence. 



* From a Sermon on the death of the Hon. V/illiara Piiickney, 
preached Marci 3d, 1S22, in t]ie hall of the house of representatives in 
congress. — Ed 



280 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE 

It is not my present purpose to ask your attention to any 
picture drawn in the studied phrase of eulogy. I aim no( 
to describe the commanding powers and the eminent qual- 
ities, which conducted the deceased to the suj)eriority he 
held, and which were at once the admiration and the pride 
of his countrymen. I shall not attempt to analyze his capa- 
cious mind, nor to set forth the richness and variety of its 
treasures. The trophies of his genius are a sutlicient tes- 
timony of these, and constitute a monument to his memo- 
ry, which will stand firm and conspicuous amidst the faded 
recollections of future ages. The present is not the time 
to recount the sources cr the memorials of his greatness 
He is gone. The noblest of Heaven's gifts could not 
shield even him from the arrows of the destroyer. And 
this behest of the Most High is a warning summons to us 
all. When Death comes into our doors, we ought to feel 
that he is near. When his irreversible sentence fails on 
the great and the renowned, when he severs the strongest 
bonds, which can bind mortals to earth, we ought to feel 
that our hold on life is slight, that the thread of existence 
is slender, that we walk amidst perils, where the next wave 
in the agitated sea of life may baffle all our struggles, and 
carry us back into the dark bosom of the deep. 

When we look at the monuments of human greatness, 
and the powers of human intellect, all that genius has in- 
vented, or skill executed, or wisdom matured, or industry 
achieved, or labour accomplished ; when we trace these 
through the successive gradations of human advancement, 
what are they ? On these are founded the pride, glory, 
dignity of man. And what are they ? Compared with 
tlie most insignificant work of God, they are nothing, less 
than nothing. The mightiest works of man are daily and 
hourly becoming extinct. The boasted theories of reli- 
gion, morals, government, which took tlie wisdom, the in- 
genuity of ages to invent, have been proved to be shad- 
owy theories only. Genius has wasted itself in vain ; the 
visions it has raised have vanished at the touch of truth. 
Nothing is left but the melancholy certainty, that all things 
human are imperfect, and must fail and decay. And man 
himself, whose works are so fragile, where is he ? Tlxi 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRO;SE. 281 

history of his works is the history of himself. He existed ; 
he is gone. 

The nature of human life cannot he more forcibly de- 
scribed than in the beautiful language of eastern poetry, 
which immediately pre >3des the text : " Man, that is born 
of woman, is of few dajs, and full cf trouble. He cometh 
forth like a flower, and is cut down ; he fleeth as a shadow, 
and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut 
down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch 
thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old 
in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground ; yet, 
through the scent of water, it wuU bud and bring forlh 
boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away ; yea, man 
giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?" Such are the sink- 
ing emblems of human life ; such is the end of all that is 
mortal in man. And what a question is here for us to 
reflect upon ! " Man giveth up the ghost, and where 
is he r 

Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk, 
and all its comeliness depart, and all its freshness wither ; 
when we see the bright eye grow dim^ and the rose on the 
cheek lose its hue ; when we hear the voice faltering its 
last accents, and see the energies of nature paralyzed ; 
when we perceive the beams of intelligence grow fainter 
and fainter on the countenance, and the last gleam of life 
extinguished ; when we deposit all that is mortal of a fel- 
low-being in the dark, cold chamber of the grave, and drop 
a pitying tear at a spectacle so humiliating, so mournful ; 
then let us put the solemn question to our souls. Where is 
he ? His body is concealed in the earth ; but where is 
(he spirit ? Where is the intellect that could look through 
the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity 
which animates and pervades the whole ? Where are the 
powers that could command, the attractions that could 
charm ? where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning. 
wit, eloquence, the pride of skill, the mystery of art, the 
r.reations of fancy, the brilliancy of thought ? where the 
virtues that could win, and the gentleness that could soothe ? 
where the mildness of temper, the generous affections, the 
benevolent feelings, all that is great and good, all that is 
noble, and lovelv, and pure, in the human charicter,— 
24* 



232 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

where are tliey ? They are gone. We can see nothing 
Ae eye of Caith only can dimly penetrate the region tc 
which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith; follow the 
light of the Gospel ; and let your delighted vision be lost 
in the glories of the immortal world. Behold, there, the 
spirits of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life, 
gathering brightness and strength, unencumbered by the 
weight ef mortal clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a 
happy existence, and performing the holy service of their 
Maker. 

Let our reflec ions on death have a weighty and immedi- 
ate influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be 
too soon nor too entirely prepared to render the account, 
which we must all render to our Maker and Judge. All 
things earthly must fail us ; the riches, power, possessions 
and gifts of the world will vanish from our sight ; friends 
and relatives will be left behind ; our present support will 
be taken away ; our strength will become weakness ; and 
the earth itself, and all its pomps, and honours, and attrac- 
tions will disappear. Why have we been spared even till 
this time ? We know not why, nor yet can we say that a 
moment is our own. The summons for our departure may 
now be recorded in the book of Heaven. The angel may 
now be on his way to execute his solemn commission. 
Death may already have marked us for his victims. But, 
whether sooner or later, the event will be equally awful, 
and demand the same preparation. 

One, only, will then be our rock and our safety. The 
cind Parent, who has upheld us all our days, will remain 
Dur unfailing support. With him is no change ; he is un- 
moved from age to age ; his mercy, as well as his being, 
endures forever ; and, if we rely on him, and live in obe- 
dience to his laws, all tears shall be wiped from our eyes, 
and all sorrow banished from our hearts. If we are rebels 
to his cause, slaves to vice, and followers of evil, we must 
expect the displeasure of a holy God, the just punishment 
of our folly and wickedness ; for a righteous retribution 
will be awarded to the evil as well as to the good. 

Let it be the highest, the holiest, tlie unceasing concern 
of each one of us, U live the life, that we may be pre- 
pared tD die the death of the rig teous ; that, when 'J\ey 



COMMOx\-PLACE iiOOiv OF PROSE. 283 

Vfho come after us shall ask, Where is he ? unt.umhered 
voices shall be raised to testify, that, although his mortal 
remains are mouldering in the cold earth, his memory is 
embalmed in the cherished recollections of many a friend 
who knew and loved him ; and all shall say, with tokens 
o* joy and confident belief. If God be just, and piety be 
rewarded, his pure spirit is now at rest in the regions of 
the blessed. 



Battle of Bunker Hill. — Cooper. 

The whole scene now lay before them. Nearly in 
their front was the village of Charlestown, with its desert- 
ed streets, and silent roofs, looking like a place of the dead ; 
or, if the signs of life were visible within its open avenues, 
'twas merely some figure m.oving swiftly in the solitude, 
like one who hastened to quit the devoted spot. On the 
opposite point of the south-eastern face of the peninsula, 
and at the distance of a thousand yards, the ground was 
already covered by masses of human beings, in scarlet, 
with their arms glittering in a noon-day sun. Between the 
two, though in the more immediate vicinity of the silent 
town, the rounded ridge, already described, rose abruptly 
from a flat that was bounded by the water, until, having 
attained an elevation of some fifty or sixty feet, it swelled 
gradually to the little crest, where was planted the hum- 
ble object that had occasioned all this commotion. The 
meadows, on the right, were still peaceful and smiling, as 
in the most quiet days of the province, though the excited 
fancy of Lionel imagined that a sullen stillness lingered 
about the neglected kilns in their front, and over the whole 
landscape, that was in gloomy consonance with the ap- 
proachmg scene. Far on the left, across the waters of the 
Charles, the American camp had poured forth its thousands 
to the hills ; and the whole population of the country, for 
many miles inland, had gathered to a point, to witness a 
struggle charged with the fate of their nation. Beacon 
llill rose from out the appalling silence of the town of Bos- 
ton, like a pyramid of living fi\ces, with every eye fixeij 



284 COMaiON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

on the fatiil point ; and men hung along the yards of the 
sLipping, or were suspended on cornices, cupolas, und stee- 
ples, in thoughtless security, while every other sense was 
lost in the absorbing interest of the sight. The vessels of 
war had hauled deep into the rivers, or, more pro] erlv, 
those narrow arms of the sea, which formed the peninsula, 
and sent their iron missiles with unwearied industry across 
the low passage, which alone opened the means of commu- 
nication between the self-devoted yeomen on the hill and 
their distant countrymen. While battalion landed alter 
battalion on the point, cannon-balls from the battery of 
Copp's, and the vessels of war, were glancing up the nat- 
ural glacis that surrounded the redoubt, burying themselves 
in its earthen parapet, or plunging with violence into the 
deserted sides of the loftier height which lay a few hun- 
dred yards in its rear ; and the black and smoking bombs 
appeared to hover above the spot, as if pausing to select 
the places in which to plant their deadly combustibles. 

Notwithstanding these appalling preparations, and cease- 
less annoyances, throughout that long and anxious morn- 
ing, the stout husbandm-en on the hill had never ceased 
their steady efforts to maintain, to the uttermost extremity, 
the post they had so daringly assumed. In vain the Eng- 
lish exhausted every means to disturb their stubborn foes ; 
the pick, the shovel and the spade continued to perform 
their offices, and mound rose after mound, amidst the din 
and danger of the cannonade, steadily, and as well as if the 
fanciful conceits of Job Pray embraced their real objects, 
and the labourers were employed in the peaceful pursuits 
of their ordinary lives. This firmness, however, was not 
like the proud front which high training can impart to the 
most common mind ; for, ignorant of the glare of military 
show ; in the simple and rude vestments of their calhng ■, 
armed with such weapons as they had seized from the 
hooks above their own mantels ; and without even a ban- 
ner to wave its cheering folds above their heads, they 
stood, sustained only by the righteousness of their cause, 
and those deep moral principles, which they had received 
from their fathers, and which they intended this day should 
show were to be transmitted untarnished to their chiluica. 
\t was afterwards known, that they endured thfir labouiJ 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 283 

and their dangers even in want of that sustenance, wliich 
is so essentiiil to support animal spirits in moments of cahn- 
lifiss and ease ; while their enemies, on the point, awaiting 
the arrival of their latest bands, were securely devouring 
a meal, which, to hundreds amongst them, proved to be their 
last. The fatal instant now seemed approaching. A gen- 
eral movement was seen among the battalions of the Brit- 
ish, Vt^ho began to spread along the shore, under cover ol 
the brow of the hill — the lingering boats having arrived 
with the rear of their detachments — and officers hurried 
from regiment to regiment with the final mandates of theii" 
chief. At this moment a body of Americans appeared on 
the crown of Bunker Hill, and, descending sv.^iflly by the 
road, disappeared in the meadows to the left of their own 
redoubt. This band was followed by others, who, like 
themselves, had broken through the dangers of the nar- 
row pass, by braving the fire of the shipping, and who also 
hurried to join their comrades on the lowland. The Brit- 
ish general determined at once to anticipate the arrival of 
further re-enforcements, and gave forth the long-expected 
order to prepare for the attack. 

The Americans had made a show, in the course of that 
fearful morning, of returning the fire of thei; enemies, by 
throwing a few shot from their light field-pieces, as if in 
mockery of the tremendous caiiiionade which they sus- 
tained. But as the moment of severest trial a|)proached, 
the same awful stillness, which had settled upon the de- 
serted streets of Charlestown, hovered around the redoubt. 
On the meadows, to its left, the recently arrived bands has- 
tily threw the rails of two fences into one, and, covering 
the whole with the mown grass that surrounded them, they 
posted themselves along the frail defence, which answer- 
ed no better purpose than to conceal their weakness from 
their adversaries. Behind this characteristic rampart, 
several bodies of husbandmen, from the neighbouring 
provinces of New Hampshire and Connecticut, lay on 
their arms, in sullen expectation. Their line extended 
from the shore to the base of the ridge, where it termi- 
nated several hundred feet behind the works; leafing tr 
wide opening, in a diagonal direction, between the fence 
and an earthen breastv^-ork, which ran a short distajic* 



286 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

down the declivity of the hill, from the north-eastern angle 
cf the redoubt. A few hundred yards in the rear of this 
rude disposition, the naked crest of Bunker Hill rose r.noc- 
cupied and undefended ; and the streams of the Charles 
and Z\Iystick, sweeping around its base, e.pproached so near 
each other as to blend the sounds of their rippling. It was 
across this low and narrow isthmus, that the royal frigates 
poured a stream of fire, that never ceased, while around 
it hovered the numerous parties of the undisciplined Ameri- 
cans, hesitating to attempt the dangerous passage. 

In this manner Gage had, in a great degree, surround- 
ed the devoted peninsula with his power ; and the bold 
men, who had so daringly planted themselves under the 
muzzles of his cannon, were left, as already stated, unsup- 
ported, without nourishment, and with weapons from their 
own gunhooks, singly to maintain the honour of their na- 
tion. Including men of all ages and conditions, there 
might have been two thousand of them ; but, as the day 
advanced, small bodies of their countrymen, taking counsel 
of their feelings, and animated by the example of the old 
partisan of the woods, who crossed and recrossea the neck, 
'oudly scoffing at the danger, broke through the fire of the 
shipping in time to join iu the closing and bloodj' business 
of the hour. 

On the other hand, Howe led more than an equal num- 
ber of the chosen troops of his prince ; and as boats con- 
tinued to ply between the two peninsulas throughout the 
afternoon, the relative disparity continued undiminished to 
Ihe end of the struggle. It was at this point in our narra- 
tive that, deeming himself sufficiently strong to force the 
defences of his despised foes, the arrangements immediate- 
ly preparatory to such an undertaking were made in full 
view- of the excited spectators. Notwithstanding the se 
curity with which the English general marshalled his war- 
riors, he felt that the approaching contest would ue a bat- 
tle of no common incidents. The eyes of tens of thousands 
were fastened on his movements, and the occasion demand- 
ed the richest display of the pageantry of war. 

The tioops formed with beautiful accuracy, and the col- 
umns moved steadily along fhe shore, and took their assign- 
ed station;- undor cover of the brow of the cmmence. Thtiit 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 281 

force was in some measure divided ; one moiety attempting 
the toilsome ascent of the hill, and the other moving along 
the beach, or in the orchards of the more level ground, to- 
wards the husbandmen on the meadows. The latter soon 
disappeared behind some fruit-trees and the brick-kilns just 
mentioned. The advance of the royal columns up the as- 
cent was slow and measured, giving time to their field- 
guns to add their efforts to the uproar of the cannonade, 
\vhich broke out with new fury as the battalions prepared 
10 march. "When each column arrived at the allotted point, 
it spread the gallant array of its glittering warriors under 
a bright sun, 

" It is a glorious spectacle," murmured the graceful 
chieftain by the side of Lionel, keenly alive to all the po- 
etry of his alluring profession ; " how exceeding soldier- 
like ! and with what accuracy his ' first-arm ascends the 
hill,' towards his enemy !" 

The intensity of his feelings prevented Major Lincoln 
from replying, and the other soon forgot that he had spoken, 
in the overwhelming anxiety of the moment. The ad- 
vance of the British line, so beautiful and slow, resembled 
rather the ordered steadiness of a drill, than an approach 
to a deadly struggle. Their standards fluttered proudly 
above them ; and there were moments Avhen the wild mu- 
sic of their bands was heard rising on the air, and temper- 
ing the ruder sounds of the artillery. The young and 
thoughtless in their ranks turned their faces backward, and 
smiled exultingly, as they beheld steeples, roofs, masts, and 
heights, teeming with their thousands of eyes, bent on the 
show of their bright array. As the British lines moved 
in open view of the little redoubt, and began slowly tc 
gather around its different faces, gun after gun became si- 
lent, and the curious artillerist, or tired seaman, lay ex- 
tended on his heated piece, gazing in mute wonder at the 
spectacle. There was just then a minute when the roar 
of the cannonade seemed passing away like the rumbling 
■jf distant thunder. 

" They will not fight, Lincoln," said the animated leader 
at the side of Lionel — " the military front of Howe has 
chilled the hearts of the knaves, and our victory will be 
bloodless !" 



283 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

" We shall see, sir — we shall see !" 

These words were barely uttered, when platoon aftei 
platoon, among the British, delivered its fire, the bl^ze of 
musketry flashing swiftly around the brow of the hill, anc 
was immediately followed by heavy volleys that ascended 
from the orchard. Still no answering sound was heard 
from the Americans, and the royal troops were soon lost to 
the eye, as they slowh' marched into the white cloud which 
their own fire had alone created. 

" They are cowed, by heavens ! — the dogs are cowed !"' 
once more cried the gay companion of Lionel, " and Howe 
is within two hundred feet of them unharmed !" 

At that instant a sheet of flame glanced through the 
smoke, like lightning playing in a cloud, while -at one re- 
port a thousand muskets were added to the uproar. It was 
not altogether fancy, which led Lionel to imagine that he 
saw the smoky canopy of the hill to wave, as if the trained 
warriors it enveloped faltered before this close and appalling 
discharge ; but, in another instant, the stimulating war-cry, 
and the loud shouts of the combatants, were borne across 
the strait to his ears, even amid the horrid din of the com- 
bat. Ten breathless minutes flew by like a moment of 
time, and the bewildered spectators on Copp's were still 
gazing intently on the scene, when a voice was raised among 
them, shouting — 

" Hurrah ! let the rake-hellies go up to Breed's ; the 
people will teach 'em the law !" 

'-' Throw the rebel scoundrel from the hill ! Blow 
him from the muzzle of a gun!" cried twenty soldiers in 
a breath. 

" Hold !" exclaimed Lionel — " 'tis a simpleton, an idiot, 
a fool !" 

But the angry and savage murmurs as quickly subsided, 
and were lost in other feelings, as the bright red lines of 
the royal troops were seen issuing from the smoke, waving 
and recoiling before the still vivid fire of their enemies. 

"Ha!" said Burgoyne — "'tis some feint to draw the 
rebels from their hold !" 

" 'Tis a palpable and disgraceful retreat !" muttered the 
stern warrior nigh him, whose truer eye detected at a glance 



COMMON-PL4CE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 

the discomfiture of the assailants. — " 'Tis another l?z.?e re- 
treat before the rebels !" 

*' Hurrah !" shouted the reckless changeling rgaic ; 
*' there come the reg'lars out of the orchard too! — sec ihA 
grannies skulking behind the kilns! Let them go on (• 
Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" 

No cry of vengeance preceded the act this time, but fifty 
of the soldiery rushed, as by a common impulse, on their 
prey. Lionel had not time to utter a word of remonstrance, 
before Job appeared in the air, borne on the uplifted arma 
of a dozen men, and at the next instant he was seen roll- 
ing down the steep declivity, with a velocity that carried 
him to the water's edge. Springing to his feet, the un- 
daunted changeling once more waved his hat in triumph, 
and shouted forth again his offensive challenge. Then 
turning, he launched his canoe from its hiding place among 
the adjacent lumber, amid a shower of stones, and glided 
across the strait; his little bark escaping unnoticed in the 
crowd of boats that were rowing in all directions. But his 
progress was watched by the uneasy eye of Lionel, who 
saw him land and disappear, with hasty steps, in the silent 
streets of the town. 

While this trifling by-play was enacting, the. great dra- 
ma of the day was not at a stand. The smoky veil, which 
clung around the brow of the eminence, was lifted by the 
air, and sailed heavily away to the south-west, leaving the 
scene of the bloody struggle again open to the view. Li- 
onel witnessed the grave and meaning glances which the 
two lieutenants of the king exchanged as they simultane- 
ously turned their glasses from the fatal spot, and, taking 
the one proffered by Burgoyne, he read their explanation 
in the numbers of the dead that lay profusely scattered in 
front of the redoubt. At this instant, an olncer from the 
field held an earnest communication with the two leaders ; 
when, having delivered his orders, he hastened back to his 
boat, like one who felt himself employed in matters of life 
and death. 

" It shall be done, sir," repeated Clinton, as tlie other 
departed, his own honest brow sternly knit under high nu: - 
tial excitement. — " The artillery have their orders, and the 
work will be accomplished without delay." 
25 



290 COMMON-PLACE BOl?K OF PROSE, 

♦' This, Major Lincoln !" cried his more sophisticated 
companion, " this is one of the trying duties of ihe soldier I 
7o i^ght, to bleed, or even to die, for his prince, is his hap- 
py privilege ; but it is sometimes his unfortunate lot to be- 
come the instrument of vengeance." 

Lionel waited but a moment for an explanation — the 
flaming balls were soon seen taking their wide circuit in 
the air, and carrying their desolation among the close and 
inflammable roofs of the opposite town. In a very fe^v 
minutes, a dense, black smoke arose from the deserted 
buildings, and forked flames plaj'ed actively along the heat- 
ed shingles, as though rioting in their unmolested posses- 
sion of the place. He regarded the gathering destruction 
in painful silence ; and, on bending his looks towards his 
companions, he fancied, notwithstanding the language of 
the other, that he read the deepest regret in the averted 
eye of him, who had so unhesitatingly uttered the fata' 
mandate to destroy. 

In scenes like these we are attempting to describe, hour-j 
appear to be minutes, and time flies as imperceptibly as life 
slides from beneath the feet of age. The disordered ranks of 
the British had been arrested at the base of the hill, and were 
again forming under the eyes of their leaders, with admi- 
rable discipline, and extraordinary care. Fresh battalions, 
frora Boston, marched with high military pride into the line, 
and every thing betokened that a second assault was at 
hand. When the moment of scupid amazement, wliich 
succeeded the retreat of the royal troops, had passed, the 
troops and batteries poured out their wrath with tenfold 
fury on their enemies. Shot were incessantly glancing 
up the gentle acclivity, madly ploughing across its grassy 
surface, while black and threatening shells appeared to 
hover above the work, like the monsters of the air, about 
to stoop upon their prey. 

Still all lay quiet and immoveable within the low xuor.nds 
of earth, as if none there had a stake in the issue of the 
bloody day. For a few moments only, the tall figure of 
rin aged man was seen slowly moving along the summit of 
T^e rampai'ts calmly regarding the dispositions of the Eng- 
lish general in the more distant part of his line, and, after 
exchanging a few v/ords with a gentleman, who joinesJ 



COMMON-PLACE BOolt OF PROSIT. 201 

him in his dangerous lookout, they disappeared togelhc? 
behind the grassy banks. Lionel soon delected t'L^ u-nwe 
of Prescott of Pepperel, passing through the crowd iii ]u\f 
munnur.-5, and his glass did not deceive him when he though!:, 
in the smaller of the two, he had himself descried th3 
graceful person of the unknown leader of the '• caucus.'' 

All eyes were now watching the advance of the battal- 
ions, which once more drew nigh the point of contest. The 
heads of the columns were already in view of their ene- 
mies, when a man was seen swiftly ascending the hill from 
the burning town : he paused amid the peril, on the natural 
glacis, and swung his hat triumphantly, and Lionel even 
fancied he heard the exulting cry, as he recognised the 
ungainly form of the simpleton, before it plunged into the 
work. 

The right of the British once more disappeared in the 
orchard, and the columns in front of the redoubt again 
opened with all the imposing exactness of their high dis- 
cipline. Their arms were already glittering in a line with 
the green faces of the mound, and Lionel heard the expe- 
rienced warrior at his side murmuring to himself — 

" Let him hold his fire, and he Vv'ill go in at the point 
of the bayonet !" 

But the trial was too great for even t\ie practised courage 
o'f the royal troops. Volley succeeded volley, and in a few 
moments they had again curtained their ranks behind the 
misty screen produced by their own fire. Then came the 
'errible flash from the redoubt, and the eddying volumes 
from the adverse hosts rolled into one cloud, enveloping the 
combat mts in its folds, as if to conceal their bloody work 
from the spectators. Twenty times, in the short space of 
as many minutes. Major Lincoln fancied he heard the in- 
cessant roll of the American musketry die away before the 
heavy and regular volleys of the troops ; and then he thought 
the sounds of the latter grew more faint, and were given at 
longer intervals. 

The result, however, was soon known. The hen-^-y 
bank of smoke, which now even clung along the grOviVid, 
was broken in fifty places ; and the disordered niisiea of 
the British were seen driven before their deliher&tn foes' iQ 
wild confusion. The flashing swords of the officers in vain 



293 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

atteiripteil t:» arrest the torrent, nor did the flight cease, \T;ith 
ui.iny if the rej^iinents, until they had even reached their 
boat?. At this moment a hum was heard in Boston, like 
the sudden rush of v.ind, and men gazed in each other's 
fi.ce5 with undisguised amazement. Here and there a lo^y 
sound of exultation escaped some unguarded lip, and many 
an eye gleamed with a triumph that could no longer be 
suppressed. Until this moment the feelings of Lionel had 
vacillated between the pride of country and his military 
spirit ; but, losing all other feelings in the latter sensation, 
he now looked fiercely about him, as if he would seek the 
man who dare exult in the repulse of his comrades. The 
poetic chieftain was still at his side, biting his nether lip 
in vexation ; but his more tried companion had suddenly 
disappeared. Another quick glance fell upon his missing 
form in the act of entering a boat at the foot of the hill. 
Quicker than thought, Lionel was on the shore, crying, as 
he flew to the water's edge — 

" Hold ! for God's sake, hold ! remember the 47th is m 
the field, and that I am its major !" 

" Receive him," said Clinton, with that grim satisfaction, 
with which men acknowledge a valued friend in moments 
of great trial ; " and then row for your lives, or, "what is 
of more value, for the honour of the British name." 

The brain of Lionel whirled as the boat shot along its 
watery bed, but, before it had gained the middle of the 
stream, he had time to consider the whole of the appalling 
scene. The fire had spread from house to house, and the 
whole village of Charlestown, with its four hundred build- 
ings, was just bursting into flames. The air seemed filled 
with whistling balls, as they hurtled above his head, and 
the black sides of the vessels of war were vomiting their 
sheets of flame with unwearied industry. Amid this tu- 
mult, the English general jyid his companions sprung to land. 
The former rushed into the disordered ranks, and by his pres- 
ence and voice recalled the men of one regiment to their 
i^uty. Beit long and loud appeals to their spirit and their an- 
c'lBLi amc were necessary to restore a moiety of their former 
ronfiJence to men, who had been thus rudely repulsed, and 
wha ncv,' looked along their thinned and exhausted ranks, 
tr.bjicg, in many instances, more than half the well-knovVn 



COMMON- LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 293 

countenances of their fellows. In the midst of the faltering 
troops stood their stern and unbending chief; but of all 
those gay and gallant youths, who followed in his train as 
he had departeu from Province-House that morning, not 
one remained, but in his blood. He alone seemed undis- 
turbed in that disordered crowd ; and his mandates went 
forth as usual, calm and determined. At length the panic, 
in some degree, subsided, and order was «nce more restored, 
as the high-spirited and mortified gentlemen of the detach- 
ment regained their lost authority. 

The leaders consulted together, apart, and the disposi- 
tions were immediately renewed for the assault. Military 
show was no longer affected, but the soldiers laid down all 
the useless implements of their trade, and many even cast 
aside their outer garments, under the warmth of a broiling 
sun, added to the heat of the conflagration, which began to 
diffuse itself along the extremity of the peninsula. Fresh 
companies were placed in the columns, and most of the 
troops were withdrawn from the meadows, leaving merely 
a few skirmishers to amuse the Americans who lay behind 
the fence. When each disposition was completed, the final 
signal was given to advance, 

Lionel had taken post in his regiment, but, marching on 
the skirt of the column, he commanded a view of most of 
the scene of battle. In his front moved a battalion, re- 
duced to a handful of men in the previous assaults. Behind 
these came a party of the marine guards, from the shipping, 
led by their own veteran major ; and next followed the de- 
jected Nesbitt and his corps, amongst whom Lionel looked 
in vain for the features of the good-natured Polwarth. 
Similar columns marched on their right and left, encircling 
three sides of the redoubt by their battalions. 

A few minutes brought him in full view of that humble 
and unfinished mound of earth, for the possession of which 
80 much blood had that day been spilt in vain. It lay, as 
before, still as if none breathed within its bosom, though 
a terrific row of dark tubes were arrayed along its top, 
following the movements of the approaching columns, as 
the eyes of the imaginary charmers of our ov/n wilderness 
are said to watch their victims As the uproar of the ar- 
tillery again grew fainter, the crash of falling streets, anrf 
25* 



294 COMMON-PLACE ROOK OF PROSE. 

the appalling gnuT-Js of the conilagration, on their ieft, }>& 
came more audible. Immense volumes of black sraoke is- 
jjued from the smouldering ruins, and, bellying outward, 
fold beyond fold, it overhung the work in a hideous cloudj 
casting its gloomy shadow across the place of blood. 

A strong column was now seen ascending, as if from out 
the burning town, and the advance of the whole became quick 
and spirited. A low call ran through the platoons, to note 
the naked weapons of their adversaries, and it was follow- 
ed by the cry of " To the bayonet ! to the bayonet !" 

" Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" shouted M'Fuse, at the 
head of the dark column from the conflagration. 

" Hurrah !" echoed a well-known voice from the silen* 
mound ; " let them come on to Breed's ; the people will 
teach 'em the law !" 

Men think at such moments with the rapidity of light- 
ning, and Lionel had even fancied his comrades in posses- 
sion of the work, when the terrible stream of fire flashed 
in the faces of the men in front. 

" Push on with the th," cried the veteran major 

of marines — " push on, or the 18th will get the honour of 
the day !" 

" We cannot," murmured the soldiers of the th ; 

" their fire is too heavy !" 

" Then break, and let the marines pass through you !" 

The feeble battalion melted away^ and the warriors of 
the deep, trained to conflicts of hand to hand, sprang for- 
ward, with a loud shout, in their places. The Americans, 
exhausted of their ammunition, now sunk sullenly back, a 
few hurling stones at their foes, in desperate indignation. 
The cannon of the British had been brought to enfilade 
their short breast- work, which was no longer tenable ; and, 
as the columns approached closer to the low rampart, it be- 
came a mutual protection to the adverse parties. 

" Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" again shouted M'Fuse, 
rushing up the trifling ascent, which was but of little more 
*'han his own height. 

"Hurrah!" repeated Pitcairn, waving his sword oo 
mother angle of the work — " the day's our own !" 

One more sheet of flame issued out of the bosom of the 
wark, and all those brave men, who had emulated the ex 



COMMON-PLACE 1500K OF PROSE. 295 

amples of their officers, were swept away, as though a 
whirlwind had passed along. The grenadier gave his war 
cry once more, before he pitched headlong among his ene- 
mies ; while Pitcairn fell back into the arms of his owd 
child. The cry of " Forward, 47th," rung through their 
ranks, and in their turn this veteran battalion gallantly 
mou "jted the ramparts. In the shallow ditch Lionel pass- 
ed the expiring marine, and caught the dying and despair- 
ing look from his eyes, and in another instant he found 
himself in the presence of his foes. As company followed 
company into the defenceless redoubt, the Americans sul 
lenly retired by its rear, keeping the bayonets of the sol- 
diers at bay with clubbed muskets and sinewy arms. When 
the whole issued upon the open ground, the husbandmen 
received a close and fatal fire from the battalions, which 
were now gathering around them on three sides. A scene 
of wild and savage confusion then succeeded to the order 
of the fight, and many f-'^al blows were given and taken, 
the melee rendering t' e use of fire-arms nearly impossible 
for several minutes. 

Lio'nel continued in advance, pressing on the footsteps 
of the retiring foe, stepj, \g over many a lifeless body in 
his difficult progress. No dthstanding the hurry, and vast 
disorder of the fray, his e^ fell on the form of the grace- 
ful stranger, stretched lifeless on the parched grass, which 
had greedily drank his blood. Amid the ferocious cries, 
and fiercer passions of the moment, the young man paus- 
ed, and glanced his eyes around him, with an expression 
that said, he thought the work of death should cease. At 
this instant the trappings of his attire caught the glaring 
eye-balls of a Jying yeoman, who exerted his wasting 
strength to sa' ifice one more worthy victim to the manes 
of his countrymen. The whole of the tumultuous scene 
vanished from the senses of Lionel at the flash of the mus- 
ket of this man, and he sunk beneath the feet of the 
combatants, insensible of further triumph, and of every 
danger. 

The fall of a single officer, in such a contest, was a cii-- 
cumstance not to be regarded ; and regiments passed over 
him, without a single man stooping to inquire into his fate. 
When the Americans had disengaged themselves from thf 



296 COaOION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

trocps. they des<;ended into the little hollow betw een the 
two hills, swlftlj-, and like a disordered crowd, bearing o3 
most of their wounded, and leaving but few prisoners in 
the hands of their foes. The formation of the ground la- 
Toured their retreat, as hundreds of bullets whistled hat ji- 
lessly above their heads ; and, by the time they gained the 
acclivity of Bunker, distance was added to their secunty, 
Finding the Seld lost, the men at the fence broke" awaj ia 
a body from their position, and abandoned the meadows ; 
the whole moving in confused masses behind the crest of 
the adjacent height. The shouting soldiery followed in 
their footsteps, pouring in fruitless and distant volleys ; but, 
on the summit of Bunker, their tired platoons were halted, 
and they beheld the throng move fearlessly through the 
tremendous lire that enfiladed the low pass, as little injured 
as though most of them bore charmed lives. 

The day was now drawing to a close. With the disap- 
pearance of their enemies, the ships and batteries ceased 
their cannonade ; and, presently, not a musket was heard 
in that place, where so fierce a contest had so long raged. 
The troops commenced fortifying the outward eminence, 
on which they rested, in order o maintain their barren 
conquest ; and nothing further ? mained for the achieve- 
ment of the royal lieutenants, 1 it to go and mourn over 
their victory. 



Autumn and Spring. — PArLDixG. 

The Summer passed away, and Autumn began to 
hang out his many-coloured flag iipon the trees, that, smit- 
ten by the nightly frosts, every morning exhibited less of 
the green, and more of the gaudy hues, that mark the 
waning year In our western climate. The farmers of El- 
sinzburgh were out La their fields, bright and early, gath- 
ering in the fmits of their spring and summer's labours, 
or busily employed in making their cider ; while the ur- 
chins passed their holydays in gathering nuts to crack by 
the winter's fire. The little quails began to whistle their 
autumnal notes : the grasshopper, having had his season 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. id? 

of idle sport and chirping jollity, began now to pay the 
penalty of his thoughtless improvidence, and might be seen 
sunning hinself at mid-day, in melancholy silence, as if 
anticipating the period when his short and merry race 
would be run. Flocks of robins were passing to the south, 
to seek a more genial air ; the sober cattle began to assume 
their rough, wintry coat, and to put on that desperate ap- 
pearance of ennui, with which all nature salutes the ap- 
proach of winter. The little blue-bird alone, the last to 
leave us, and the first to return in the spring, sometimes 
poured out his pensive note, as if bidding farewell to the 
nest where it had reared its young. 



Now the laughing, jolly Spring began sometimes to show 
her buxom face in the bright morning ; but ever and anon, 
meeting the angr^ frown of Winter, loath to resign his rough 
sway over the wide realm of nature, she would retire again. 
into her southern bower. Yet, though her visits were but 
short, her very look seemed to exercise a magic influence. 
The buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds ; 
the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost im- 
perceptible purple tint ; and here and there a little chirp- 
ing blue-bird hopped about the orchards of Elsingburgh. 
Strips of fresh green appeared along the brooks, now re- 
leased from their icy fetters ; and nests of little variegated 
flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprung up 
in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods. By and 
by, the shad, the harbinger at once of spring and plenty, 
came up the river before ihe mild southern breeze ; the 
ruddy blossoms of the peach tree exhibited their gorgeous 
pageantry ; the little lambs appeared frisking and gambol- 
ing about the sedate mother ; young, innocent calves be- 
gan their first bleatings ; the cackling hen announced her 
daily feat in the barn-yard with clamorous astonishment ; 
every day added to the appearance of that active vegetable 
and animal life, which nature presents in the progress of 
the genial spring ; and, finally, the flowers, the zephyrs, and 
the warblers, and the maiden's rosy cheeks, announced to 
the eye, the ear, the senses, the fancy, and the heart, the 
return and the stay of the vernal year. 



593 C03IM0X-PLACE BOOK OF 1 ROSS. 



T%e Storm- Ship. — Irvixg. 

Ijr the golden age of the province of the New Netlier 
lands, when it was under the sway of Wouter VanTwiller 
otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhat 
toes were alarmed, one sultry afternoon, just about the tiaie 
of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder 
and lightning. The rain descended m such torrents as ab- 
solutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seem- 
ed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very root=- 
of the houses ; the lightning was seen to play about the 
church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain, 
to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Home's new chim- 
ne}' was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doflfue Mil- 
deberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, 
just as he was riding into town. In a ^v^rd, it was one of 
those unparalleled storms, that only happen once within 
the memory of that venerable personage known in all towns 
by the appellation of " the oldest inhabitant." 

Great was the terror of the good old women of the Man- 
hattoes. They gathered their children together, and took 
refuge in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron 
point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning:. 
At length the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl, 
and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed bor- 
ders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam 
like a sea of molten gold. 

The word was given from the fort that a ship was stand- 
ing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street 
to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The 
arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, 
was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It 
brought them news from the old world, from the land of 
their birth, from which *hey were so completely severed : 
to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of lux- 
uries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. 
The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new 
gown until the arrival of the ship ; the artist waited for it 
for his tools, the burgomaster hv his pipe and his supply 
of Hollands, the schcolboy for h.s top and marbles, and the 



COMMON-PLACE Hvvii. \jF PllOSE. 299 

.orc.Iy l:inch^.i;ler for the bricks with which he was to build 
bis new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great 
and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was 
the great yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam ; 
and, from one end of the year to the other, the ship — the 
ship — the. ship — was the continual topic of conversation. 

The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the popu- 
lace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. 
It was not exactly the time when she had been expected 
to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of same spec- 
ulation. Many v>^ere the groups collected about the bat- 
tery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of 
slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great 
confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At 
another place was a knot of old, weather-beaten fellows, 
who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were 
great authorities on such occasions ; these gave different 
opinions, and caused great disputes among their several 
adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed 
and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old 
Dutch sea captain retired from service, the nautical oracle 
of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient 
telescope, covered with tarry canvass, hummed a Dutch 
tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from 
Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight with the public, 
than a speech from another man. 

In the mean time the ship became more distinct to the 
naked eye : she was a stout, round, Dutch built vessel, 
with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The 
evening sun gilded her bellying canvass, as she came riding 
over the long waving billows. The sentinel, who had given 
notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of 
her when she was in the centre of the bay ; and that she 
broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out 
ol the bosom of the black thunc'or-cloud. The bystanders 
looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this 
report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together, 
and said nothing ; upon which some shook their heads, and 
others shrugged their shoulders. 

The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made m reply, 
tnd, passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun 



300 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE* 

WAS brought to bear on her, and, with some difficulty. Lead- 
ed and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being ex- 
pert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pasj 
through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other 
Bide ; but no notice was taken of it ! What was strange, 
she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and 
tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Han3 
Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordered his 
boat, and set oflf to board her ; but, after rowing two or 
three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he 
would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, 
in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it 
was because his oars-men, who were rather pursy and short- 
winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and 
spit on their hands ; but this, it is probable, was a mere 
scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew ; 
who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in 
doublets and high hats and feathers : not a word was spoken 
by any one on board ; they stood as motionless as so many 
statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own govern- 
ment. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening 
and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded 
from sight, like a little white cloud melting away in the 
summer sky. 

The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one 
of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole 
course of his administration. Fears were entertained for 
the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this 
might be an enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take posses- 
sion. The governor called together his council repeatedly, 
to assist him with their conjectures. He sat in his chair 
of state, built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague, 
and smoking his long jasmin pipe, and listened to all that 
his counsellors had to say on a subject about which they 
knew nothing; but, in spite of all the conjecturing of 
the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued 
to doubt. 

Messengers were despatched to different places on the 
river ; but they returned without any tidings — the ship had 
made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed, 
but she never returned down the Hudson. As, however- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP f R.CE. BOl 

ihc council seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had i- 
in ibandance. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived 
without bringing some report of having seen the strange 
ehip at different parts of the river ; sometimes near the 
Falisadoes, sometimes off Croton Point, and sometimes in 
the Highlands ; but she never was reported as having been 
seen above the Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is 
true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts 
of these apparitions ; but that may have arisen from the 
uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes 
it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm lighting up a 
pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering across 
Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At 
one moment she would appear close upon them, as if like- 
ly to run them down, and would throw them into great 
bustle and alarm ; but the next flash would show her far 
off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet 
moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff 
of the Highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her top- 
sails glittering in the moonbeams ; by the time, however, 
that the voyagers would reach the place, there would be 
no ship to be seen ; and, when they had passed on for some 
distance, and looked back, behold ! there she was again, 
with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her appearance was 
always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of un- 
ruly weather ; and she was known by all the skippers 
and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of " the storm- 
ship." • 

Thesis reports perplexed the governor and his council 
more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the con- 
jectures and opinions that were uttered on the subject. 
Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of 
New Ergland, navigated by witches and goblins. Old 
Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch 
colon}- at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must 
b^ the flying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table 
Bay ; but, being unable to make port, had now sought anoth- 
er harbour Others suggested, that, if it really was a super- 
natural apparition, as there was every natural reason to be- 
Jieve, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the 
Halfmoon ; who, it was well known, had once run aground 
26 



S02 co:jz-iox-plac£ book uf prose. 

ja the upper part of the river, in seeking a north- we?: ;_«>?• 
gage 10 Ciiiiia. Thb opinion had very little weight with Ah 
governor, but it passed current out of doors : for, indeed 
it had already been reported, that Plendrick Hudson and 
his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appear- 
ed very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infesJ 
the river where the entiiTprise was baffled, or that it might 
bea" the shadowy crew to their periotlical revels in the 
mountain. 

Other events occurred Jo occupy the thoughts and doubts 
f the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship 
^eased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It con- 
tinued, however, to be a matter of popular belief and mar- 
vellous anecdote through the whole *ime of the Dutch gov- 
ernment, and particularly just before the capture of Xew 
Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the 
English squadron. Abcut that time the storm-ship was 
repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk, 
and even down a3 f-ir as Hoboken ; and her appearance 
was supposed to be ooiious of the approaching squall in 
public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination. 

Since that time vie have no authentic accounts of her , 
though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises 
about Poin*:-no-point. People, who live along the river, 
insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight; 
and that, in a deep, scill midnight, they have heard the chant 
of her crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds 
are so deceptin-e along the mountainous shores, and about 
the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I 
confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject. 

It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been 
seen in these Highlands in storms, which are considered 
as connected with the old story of the ship. The captains 
of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch 
goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat. with a speaking 
trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps about the Dun- 
derberg.* They declare that they have heard him, in 
stormy weather, in the m.idst of the turmoil, giving orders 
in low Dutch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or 



* That Ls, tlie ■' Thuuder Mountain," so called from its ectD^s 



c;o:MiMON-rLACE Booiv or riiusE. 303 

[he rattling off of another thunder-clap ; {h^it^anjet ir.it s ha 
has been seen surrounded by a crew of little iiT.ps In broad 
breeches and short doublets ; tumbling head over heels in 
the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in the 
air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's 
Nose ; and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm 
was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the 
Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came 
scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just 
over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, yet she 
laboured dreadfully, until the water came over the gun- 
wale. All the crew were amazed, \vhen it was discovered 
that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast- 
head, which was known at once to be the hat of the Heer 
of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to 
the mastrhead, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop 
continued labouring and rocking, as if she would have roll- 
ed her mast overboard. She seemed in continual danger, 
either of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way 
she drove quite through the Highlands, until she had pass- 
ed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of 
the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she pass- 
ed this bourn, than the little hat, all at once, spun up into 
the air like a top ; whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, 
and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg ; 
while the sloop righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as 
if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck 
but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nail- 
ed against the mast, — a wise precaution against evil spirits, 
which has since been adopted by all the Dutch captains 
that navigate this haunted river. 

There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, 
oy Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fish Hill, who was nev- 
er known to tell a lie. He declared, that, in a severe 
squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the 
sloop ashore, full butt against Antony's Nose, and that he 
was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who 
happened to be on board, and who sung the hymn of St. 
Nicholas; v^hereupon the goblin threw himself up in the 
air l.'ke a ball, and went off in a whirlwind, carrying away 
with him the night-cap of the Dominie's wife ; which waa 



304 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

discoverc-i the nest Sunday morning hanging on the wei^ 
ther-&.jck of Esopus' church steeple, at least forty mileS 
off! After several events of this kind had taken place, 
the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not 
venture to pass the Dunderberg, without lowering their 
peaks, out of homage to the Heer of the mountain ; and it 
was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect 
were suffered to pass unmolested.* 



Anecdote of James Otis. — J. Adams. 

Otis belonged to a club who met on evenings; of 
which club William Molineuxt was a member. Moly- 
neux had a petition before the legislature, which did not 
succeed to his wishes, and he became for several even- 
ings sour, and wearied the company with his complaints of 
services, losses, sacrifices, &c., and said — "That a man 
who has behaved as I have should be treated as I am is 



* Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies, during 
the early times of" the settlements, tliere seems to have been a singular 
one about phantom ships. The superstitious fancies of men are al ways 
apt to turn upon those objects which concern their daily occupations. 
The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came like a raven in tlie 
wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the comforts of 
life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present 
to their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight 
from sli ore of a sail gliding along the horizon in those, as yet, lonely 
seas, was apt to be a matter of much talk and speculation. There is 
mention made in one of the early New Engl-md v/riters, of a ship i;av 
igated by witches, with a great horse that stood by the niainma'st. I 
have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove on shore, 
in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails al! set, and a table spread 
in the cabin, "as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being 
on board. These phantom ships always sailed in the eye of tlie wind, 
or ploughed their way with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam 
before their bows, when not a breath of air was sUrring. 

Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea in;o a 
httle tale, which, within a sniiill compass, contains the very essence of 
this species of supernatural fiction. I allude to his Spectre-Ship bound 
to Deadman's Isle. 

f Mr Molineux was a merchant, but much more of a sportsman and a 
bon vivant,X.ha.n a man of business His sentiments were warmly in fa- 
vour of his country; and, though often a companion of the English 
nfncers, he was yet an intimate acquaintance of the leading i)atriot>' 
of the day.— Tudor. 



COMMON-PLACB; BOOSi OF PROSE. 305 

intolerable!" Otis had siid nothing; but the company 
were disgusted and out of patience, when Otis rose from 
his seaij and said — " Come, come. Will, quit this subject, 
and let is enjoy ourselves. I also have a list of grievan- 
ces ; will you hear it ?" The club expected some fun, and 
all cried out, " Ay ! ay ! let us hear your list." 

" Well, then, Will : in the first place, I resigned the 
office of advocate-general, w^hich I held from the crown, 
that produced me — how much do you think ?" " A great 
deal, no doubt," said Molineux. " Shall we say two 
hundred sterling a year ? " " Ay, more, I believe," said 
Molineux. " Well, let it be two hundred ; that, for ten 
years, is two thousand. 

" In the next place, I have been obliged to relinquish 
the greatest part of my business at the bar. Will you set 
that at two hundred more ?" " Oh ! I believe it much 
more than that." " Well, let it be two hundred ; this, for 
ten years, is two thousand more. You allow, then, I have 
lost four thousand pounds sterling." . " Ay, and much more 
too," said Molineux. 

" In the next place, I have lost an hundred friends ; - 
among whom were the men of the first rank, fortune and 
power in the province. At what price will you estimate 
them ?" " At nothing," said Molineux ; " you are better 
without them, than with them." A loud lav.gh. " Be 
it so," said Otis. 

" In the next place, I have made a thousand enemies, 
among whom are the government of the province and the 
nation. What do you think of this item ?" " That is as 
it may happen," said Molineux. 

" In the next place, you know, I love pleasure ; but I 
have renounced all amusement for ten years. What is 
that worth to a man of pleasure ?" " No great matter," 
said Molineux ; •' you have made politics your amuse- 
ment." A hearty laugh. 

" In the next place, I bave ruined as fine health, and ag 
good a constitution of body, as nature ever gave to man.'* 
«' This is melancholy indeed," said Molineux ; " there is 
nothing to be said on that point." 

" Once more," said Otis, holding his head down before 
Molineux ; " look upon this head !" (v/here was a scar, ia 
26 - 



B03 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

which a man might bury his finger ;*) " what do yon 
think of this ? and, what is worse, my friends think I 
have a monstrous crack in my skull." 

This made all the company very grave, and look very 
solemn. But Otis, setting up a laugh, and with a gay 
countenance, said to Molineux — " Now, Willy, my ad- 
rice to you is, to say no more about your grievances ; for 
you and I had better put up our accounts of profit and loss 
m our pockets, and say no more about them, lest the world 
should laugh at us." 

This whimsical dialogue put all the company, and Moli- 
neux himself, into good humour, and they passed the rest 
of the evening in joyous conviviality. 



Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis. — 
Tudor. 

Otis had long been so conspicuous as a leader of the 
paliiotic party, his power of exciting public feeling was sc 
irresistible, his opposition to the administration was so bold 
and vehement, his detestation against those who were 
briiigiiig ruin on the country was so open and mortifying, 
thai secret representations had long been making to render 
liim particularly obnoxious to the ministry, and to stimulate 
them to arrest and try him for treason. At length, in the 
course of this summer, copies of several of the letters of 
Governor Bernard, and of the commissioners, filled with 
insinuations, and even charges of a treasonable nature, 
were procured at the public offices in England, and trans- 
mitted to him ; leaving no doubt, that, if these persons had 
ventured on such a crimination in official letters, they had 
gone much further in their private correspondence. 

He was stung to madness by the discovery and proofs 
of these malignant calumnies, and this secret treachery. 
Agitated as he was by the actual and impending evils, that 
threatened the whole country, and that were more espe- 



* 'ITie manner in which he receivel this wound is related in the foJ 
lowing extract.— Ed. 



CO'^ir.IOxN^-PLACE r.OOK OF PROSE. 307 

cial'y iVirectcd, at this period, against his own province, and 
his owi: town ; penetrated willi anxious responsibility for 
the expediency of those measures of opposition, of which 
he Wiis one of tlie cliief advisers, and had long been the 
ostensible leader ; these attempts to destroy his character, 
if not his life, excited the deepest indignation. In defend- 
ing the cause of the colonies, he had looked forward to the 
time when justice would be done them, and when he should 
derive advantage and honour for all his exertions and sac- 
rifices. He was not acting as a demagogue, nor as a rev- 
olutionist. He was proud of his rank in society ; and in 
opposing the ministerial schemes he still felt loyalty to- 
wards the sovereign, and affection for England ; and longed 
for the period, when he might give proofs of both, not in 
opposing, but in supporting the views of government ; 
while, at this very time, he found that the crown officers 
had been assiduously labouring to blast his reputation, and 
endeavouring to have him torn from his home, to undergo 
iinprisonment and persecution in the mother country. With 
the proofs of their conduct in his possession, he could n( 
longer restrain himself, but hurled his defiance and con< 
tempt in the following notice.* 

" Advertisement. Whereas I have full evidence, that 
Henry Hutton, Charles Pa.xto7i, William Burch, and 
John Rohinson,\ Esquires, have frequently and lately 
treated the characters of all true North Americans in a 
manner that is not to be endured, by privately and public- 
ly representing them as traitors and rebels, and in a general 
combination to revolt from Great Britain ; and whereas the 
said Henry, Chavles, William and John, without the least 
provocation or colour, have represented me by name, as 
inimical to the rights of the crown, an* disaffected to his 
majesty, to whom I annually swear, and am determined 
at all events to bear true and faithful allegiance ; for all 
which general as well as personal abuse and insult, satis- 
faction has been personally demanded, due warning given, 
but no sufficient answ^er obtained ; these ar^ humbly U 

* Boston Gazette, September 4th, 17G9. 

I These were the commissioners of the customs. 



308 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

desire the lords commissioners of his majesty's trexsury, 
his principal secretaries of state, particularly my lord 
Hillsborough, the board of trade, and all others whom it 
n;ay concern, or who may condescend to read this, to piy 
no kind of regard to any of the abusive representaticrs c-f 
Di3 or my country, that may be transmitted by the said 
Heitry, Charles, TVilUam B^nd John, or their cou federates; 
for they are no more worthy of credit, than those of Sir 
Francis Bernard, of Nettleham, Bart., or any of his cabal ; 
which cabal may be well known, from the papers in the 
house of commons, and at every great oflBce in England." 

JAI\[ES OTIS. 

There were some further documents inserted in the same 
Gazette, such as a correspondence with the collector, and 
some extracts from the letters of these officers to the treas 
ury and board of trade in England. 

The next evening, about seven o'clock, Mr. Otis went 
to the British coffee-house, where Mr. Robinson, one of the 
commissioners, was sitting, as also a number of army, navy, 
and revenue officers. As soon as he came in, an alterca- 
tion took place, which soon terminated in Robinson's strik- 
ing him with a cane, which was returned with a weapon 
of the same kind. Great confusion then ensued. The 
Ughts were extinguished, and Otis, without a friend, was 
surrounded by the adherents of Robinson. A young man, 
by the name of Gridley, passing by, very boldly en- 
*^ered the coffee-house to take the part of Otis against so 
many foes ; but he was also assaulted, beaten, and turned 
out of the house. After some time the combatants w^ere 
separated, Robinson retreated by a back passage, and Otis 
was led home wounded and bleeding. 

This affair naturally excited much attention. V'arious 
and contradictory statements were given in the newspapers 
respecting it. It was said, that this intentional assault was 
the result of a meditated plan of assassination. Five oi 
six bludgeons and one scabbard were found on the floor 
after the struggle. Otis received a deep wound on the 
head, which the surgeons, Doctors Perkins and Lloyd, tes- 
tified must have been given by a sharp instrument. The 
accusation of a preconcerted intention to murder, is doub*- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 3( 9 

less unfounded ; but, from all the evidence in the ci.se, il 

is plain, that it was a brutal and cowardly assault, in which 
several persons took part, with a disposition, that, in the fury 
of the moment, sought to disable this great patriot, whom 
they so rancorously hated. If such was their purpose, it 
to a considerable degree succeeded. 

Th3 natural indignation that was roused against the au- 
thors of this ruffian-like attack, the animosity that existed 
towards the revenue officers, for their insolent and oppres- 
sive conduct ; the keen feelings natural to a state of violeni 
political excitement; the sympathy and admiration that were 
cherished for the liberal character, powerful talents and 
efficient services of th^ leading patriot of his day, — all con- 
spired to make the public give this transaction the odium 
of a scheme of assassination. Pity for the sufferer made 
them also impute the impairment of his reason to this event 
exclusively. It is not, however, necessary to believe, that 
an assassination had been planned, in order to cover the 
perpetrators of this barbarous assault with ignominy. Nor 
can the mental alienation, which afterwards afflicted him, 
and deprived the world of his great talents, in the vigour 
of manhood, — for he was at this time only in his forty-sixth 
year, — be wholly attributed to the wound he received. His 
disposition was so ardent, and his mind so excitable, that 
its natural tendency, under aggravating circumstances, was 
to insanity. Had he lived in ordinary times, in the usual 
exercise of professional or political duties, undisturbed by 
adverse events, he might have escaped the misfortune that 
befell him. His generous and social humour, his wit and 
ready talent, would have rendered his career easy and tran- 
quil. But he was called upon to act in public affairs at a 
most arduous epoch : he had to maintain a continual struggle 
against insidious placemen and insolent oppressors : he him- 
self v/as denounced, proscribed, and frequently insulted. The 
feelings of his own injuries, joined to those for his country, 
kept his mind in constant action, anxiety and irritation. 
Having espoused the cause of his fellow-citizens, with ai! 
his strength and all his mind, at a time when new wrong< 
blI new difficulties were incessantly recurring, he knew 
no repose. His faculties were perpetually agitated, a«il 
he did not sufficiently master and subdue his indignt'i ■'O 



510 C0MM0>5-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

against subaltern agents, though prime movers in this nis 
chief, jet who were in reality deserving only of his con 
tempt. It was an unfortunate yielding to his anger, th* 
placing himself, as he did in some degree, on a level with 
the commissioners of the customs, whom he ought merely 
to have unmasked and left to public scorn, without degrad- 
ing himself to a personal rencounter. The injuries he 
sustained in it impaired his power of self-control, and con 
fribuled essentially to his subsequent derangement. 



Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson. — Webster. 

Ii«- 1820 Mr. Adams acted as elector of president and 
vice-president, and in the same year we saw him, then at 
the age of eighty-five, a member of the convention of this 
commonwealth, called to revise the constitution. Forty 
years before, he had been one of those who formed that con- 
stitution ; and he had now the pleasure of witnessing that 
there was little which the people desired to change. Pos- 
sessing all his faculties to the end of his long life, with an 
unabated love of reading and contemplation, in the centre 
of interesting circles of friendship and aifection, he v/as 
blessed in his retirement with whatever of repose and 
felicity the condition of man allows. He had, also, other 
enjoyments. He saw around him that prosperity and 
general hajipincss, which had been the object of his public 
cares and labours. No man ever beheld more clearly, and 
for a longer time, the great and beneficial effects of the 
services rendered by himself to his country. That liberty, 
which he so early defended, that independence, of v/hich 
he was so able an advocate and supporter, he saw, we 
trust, firmly and securely established. The population of 
the country thickened around him faster, and extended 
wider, than his own sanguine predictions liad anticipated , 
and the wealth, respectability and power of the nation 
sprang ijp to a magnitude, which it is quite iiupo^sible he 
could have expected to witness in his day. He lived, 
aisOj to behold those principles of civil freedom, which had 
i^f^Ti developed, established, and pracically applied, In 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 311 

America, attract attention, command respect, and awaken 
imitation, in other regions of the globe ; and well might, 
and well did, he exclaim, " Where will the consequences 
of the American revolution end !" 

If any thing yet remain to fill tliis cup of happiness, let 
it be added, that he lived to see a great and intelligent 
people bestow the highest honour in their gift, where he 
had bestowed his own kindest parental affections, and 
lodged his fondest hopes. Thus honoured in life, thus hap- 
py at death, he saw the Jubilee, and he died ; and with 
the list prayers which trembled on his lips, was the fer- 
vent supplication for his country, " Independence for- 
ever !" 

From the time of his final retirement from public life, 
in 1807, Mr. Jefferson lived as became a wise man. Sur- 
rounded by affectionate friends, his ardour in the pursuit 
of knowledge undiminished, with uncommon health, and 
unbroken spirits, he was able to enjoy largely the rational 
pleasures of life, and to partake in that public prosperity, 
which he had so much contributed to produce. His kind- 
ness and hospitality, the charm of his conversation, the 
ease of his manners, the extent of his acquirements, and 
especially the full store of revolutionary incidents, which 
he possessed, and which he knew v*'hen and how to dis- 
pense, rendered his abode in a high degree attractive to 
his admiring countrymen, wliile his high public and scien- 
tific character drew towards him every intelligent and ed- 
ucated traveller from abroad. Both JSIr. Adams and Mr. 
Jefferson had the pleasure of knowing, that the respect, 
which they so largely received, was not paid to their offi- 
cial stations. They were not men made great by office, 
but great men, on whom the country, for its own benefit, 
had conferred office. There was that in them, which of- 
fice did not give, and which the relinquishment of office 
did not, and could not, take away. In their retirement, in 
the midst of their fellow-citizens, themselves private citi- 
zens, they enjoyed as high regard and esteem, as when 
filling the most important places of public trust. 

There remained to Mr. Jefferson yet one other work of 
patriotism and beneficence, — the establishment of a univer- 
sity in his native state. To this object lie devotert 5-ears 



S12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

of incessant and anxious attention, and, by the enlightened 
liberality of the legislature of Virginia, and the co-opera- 
tion of other able and zealous friends, he Uved to see it ac- 
complished. May all success attend this infant seminary ; 
and may those who enjoy its advantagei, as often as their 
eyes shall rest on the neighbouring height, recollect what 
the}- owe to their disinterested and indefatigable benefac- 
tor ; and may letters honour him, who thus laboured is 
the cause of letters. 

Thus useful, and thus respected, passed the old age of 
Thomas Jefferson. But time was on its ever-ceaseless 
wing, and was now bringing the last hour of this illustri- 
ous man. He saw its approach with undisturbed serenity. 
He counted the moments, as they passed, and beheld that 
his last sands were falling. That day, too, was at hand, 
which he had helped to make immortal. One wish, one 
hope, — if it were not presumptuous, — beat in his tainting 
breast. Could it be so — might it please God — he would 
desire once more to see the sun, — once more to look abroad 
on the scene around him, — on the great day of liberty. 
Heaven, in its mercy, fullilled that prayer. He saw that 
sun — he enjoyed its sacred light — he thanked God for his 
mercy, and bowed his aged head in the grave. " Fe- 
lix, non vlicB tantum daritate, sed etiam opportunitate 
mortis" 



Morals of Chess. — Fra>-kl,ix. 

Platixg at chess is the most ancient and uriversal 
game known among men ; for its original is beyond the 
memory of history, and it has for numberless ages been 
the amusement of all the civilized nations of Asia, — the 
Persians, the Indians, and the Chinese. Europe has had 
it above a thousand years ; the Spaniards have spread it 
over their part of America, and it begins to make its ap- 
pearance in these States. It is so interesting in ivself as 
not to need the view of gain to induce engagiag in it ; and 
thence it is never played for money. Tho=;e, thtrefore 
who have leisure for such diversions cannot find one that 



COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF 1 ROSE. 313 

Is more innocent; and the following piece, written with a 
view to correct (among a few young friends) somo little 
iiiiproprieties in the practice of it, shows, at the same time, 
that it may, in its effects on the mind, be not merely inno- 
cent, but advantageous, to the vanquished as well as the 
victor. 

The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement. 
Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the 
course of human life, are to be acquired, or strengthened, 
by it, so as to become habits, ready on all occasions. For 
life is a kind of chess, in which we have points to gain, 
and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which 
there is a vast variety of good and ill events, that are, in 
some degree, the eifects of prudence or the want of it. Hy 
playing at chess, then, we learn, 

1. Foresight, which looks a little into futurity, considers 
the consequences that may attend an action ; for it is con- 
tinually occurring to the player, " If I move this piece, 
what will be the advantage of my new situation ? What 
use can my adversary make of it to annoy me ? What other 
moves can 1 make to support it, and to defend mj'self from 
his attacks ?" 

2. Circumspection, which surveys the whole chess- 
board, or scene of action, the relations of the several pieces 
and situations, the dangers they are respectively exposed 
to, the several possibilities of their aiding each other, the 
probabilities that the adversary may take this or that move, 
and attack this or the other piece, and what different means 
can be used to avoid his stroke, or turn its consequences 
against him. 

3. Caution, not to make our moves too hastily. This 
Iiabit is best acquired by observing strictly the laws of the 
game, such as, " If you touch a piece, you must move it 
somewhere ; if you set it down, you must let it stand .^' 
and it is therefore best that these rules should be observed ; 
•^s the game thereby becomes more the image of human 
life, and particularly of war ; in which, if you have i;c: ».i- 
tiously pxxt yourself into a bad and dangerous position, n'ou 
cannot obtain your enemy's leave to withdraw your troo">:»s, 
and place them more securely, but you must abldr: all the 
consequences of your rashness. 

27 



314 COMMON-PLACE B^ OK OF PHOSE. 

And, lastly, we learn by chess the habit of not btln* 
discouragedliy present had appearances in the state of 
our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favourable change, 
and that of persevering in the search of resources. The 
game is so full of events, there is such a variety of turns 
in it, the fortune of it is so subject to sudden vicissitudes, 
and one so frequently, after long contemplation, discovers 
the means of extricating one's self from a supposed insur 
mountable difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the 
contest to the last, in hope of victory by our own skill, or 
at least of giving a stale mate, by the negligence of our 
adversary. And whoever considers, what in chess he often 
sees instances of, that particular pieces of success are apt 
to produce presumption, and its consequent inattention, by 
which the loss may be recovered, will learn not to be too 
much discouraged by the present success of his adversary, 
nor to despair of final good fortune, upon every little check 
he receives in the pursuit of it. 

That v/e may, therefore, be induced more frequently to 
choose this beneficial amusement, in preference to others, 
which are not attended with the same advantages, every 
circumstance which may increase the pleasure of it should 
be regarded ; and every action or word that is unfair, dis- 
respectful, or that in any way may give uneasiness, should 
be avoided, as contrary to the immediate intention of both 
the players, which is, to pass the time agreeably. 

Therefore, first. If it is agreed to play according Ic 
the strict rules ; then those rules are to be exactly ob- 
served by both parties, and should not be insisted on foi 
one side, while deviated from by the other — for this is not 
equitable. 

Secondly, If it is agreed not to obser^^e the rules exact- 
ly, but one party demands indulgences, he should then be 
as ' '"lling to allow them to the other. 

'.\ ird'y, No false move should ever be made to extricate 
yt irself out of a difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There 
caii Le no pleasure in playing with a person once detected 
n such unfair practices. 

Fov.rlhly, If your adversary is long in playing, you ought 
not to hcrry him, or to express any uneasiness at his delay 
You should not sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watch, 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 316 

nor take up a book to read, nor make a tapping with your 
feet on the floor, or with your fingers on the table, nor do 
any thing that may disturb his attention. For all these 
things displease ; and they do not show your skill in play- 
ing, but your craftiness or your rudeness. 

Fifthly, You ought not to endeavour to amuse and de- 
ceive j^our adversary, by pretending to have made bad 
moves, and saying that you have now lost the game, in 
order to make him secure and careless, and inattentive to 
your schemes ; for this is fraud and deceit, not skill in the 
game. 

Sixthly, You must not, when you have gained a victory, 
use any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too 
much pleasure ; but endeavour to console your adversary, 
and make him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind 
of civil expression that may be used with truth ; such as, 
" You understand the game better than I, but you are a 
little inattentive ; or, you play too fast ; or, you had the 
best of th{! game, but something happened to divert your 
thoughts, and that turned it in my favour." 

Seventhly, If you are a spectator while others play, ob- 
serve the most perfect silence. For if you give advice, 
you offend both parties ; him against whom you give it, 
because it may cause the loss of his game ; and him in 
whose favour you give it, because, though it be good, and 
he follows it, he loses the pleasure he might have had, if 
you had permitted him to think until it had occurred to 
himself. Even after a move or moves, you must not, by 
replacing the pieces, show how it might have been placed 
better ; for that displeases, and may occasion disputes and 
doubts about their true situation. All talking to the players 
lessens or diverts their attention, and is therefore unpleas- 
mg. Nor should you give the least hint to either party, 
by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are un- 
worthy to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise 
or show your judgment, do it in playing j^our own game, 
when you have an opportunity, not in criticising, or med- 
dling with, or counselling the play of others. 

Lastly, If the game is not to be played rigorously, ac- 
cording to the rules above-mentioned, then moderate your 
desire of victory over your adversary, and be pleased with 



316 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

one over yourself. Snatch not eag;erly at every advantage 
ctFered by his unskilfulness or inattention; but point out to 
him kindly, that by such a move he places or leaves a piece 
m danger and unsupported ; that by another he will put his 
king in a perilous situation, &c. By this generous civility 
(so opposite to the unfairness above forbidden) you may, in- 
deed, happen to lose the game to your opponent ; but yop 
will win what is better, — his esteem, his respect, and his 
affection ; together with the silent approbation and good 
will of impartial spectators. 



The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence. — 
C. B. Browjy. 

I WAS seized with a violent fever. I knew in what manner 
patients Were treated at the hospital, and removal thither 
was to the last degree abhorred. 

The morning arrived, and my situation' was discovered. 
At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house, 
and refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I knsv.' not 
my fate, till three rufhans made their appearance at my 
bedside, and communicated their commission. 

I called on the name of Thetford and his wife. I en- 
treated a moment's delay, till 1 had seen these persons, and 
endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. They 
were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their 
office by force, I was delirious with rage and terror. I 
heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer ; and by 
turns invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of re- 
proaches on, the v/retches whom he had selected for hia 
ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain. 

I havfc no perfect recollection of what passed till my ar- 
rival at the hospital. My passions combined with my disease 
to make me frantic and wild. In a state like mine, the 
slightest motion could not be endured without agony. What 
then must I have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun, 
sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rug« 
ged pavement ? 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 31? 

I caiiaot make you comprehend the anguish of my 
feelings. To be disjointed and torn piece-meal by the rack, 
was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. Nothing ex- 
cites ray wonder, but that I did not expire before the cart 
had m'^ved three paces, 

T knew not how, or by whom, I was moved from this 
vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. After 
a time I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowl- 
edge of my situation. I lay upon a mattress, whose condi- 
tion proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been 
dragged from it. The room was large, but it was covered 
with beds like my own. Between each, there was scarce- 
ly the interval of three feet. Each sustained a wretch, 
whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of 
his condition. 

The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A va- 
pour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to 
breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for the evac- 
uations produced by medicine or disease. My nearest 
neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually 
extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had 
flowed from his stomach. 

You will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the 
sound of laughter should be overheard. While the upper 
rooms of this building are filled with the sick and the dying, 
the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth. 
The wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend 
the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and 
consume the cordials, which are provided for the patients, 
in debauchery and riot. 

A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunken- 
ness, occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon 
her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, 
or her assistance to chang**. a posture which compelled him 
to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his 
neighbour. 

The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to 

see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes 

and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for 

ministering the aid that was needed. Presently, she dis- 

27* 



318 COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF PROSE. 

appeared, and others ascended the stah-case : a coiTin was 
deposited at the door : the wretch, whose heart still quiver- 
ed, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor 
into the passage. 

Oh ! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by 
Flie fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of theii 
fellow-beings are condemned ! This misery was more 
frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of 
the attendants. My own eyes only would make me credit 
the existence of wickedness so enormous. No wonder that 
to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and un- 
known, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought 
hither. 

A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave some 
directions to the person who attended him. I did not com- 
prehend them ; they were never executed by the nurses, 
and, if the attempt had been made, I should probably have 
refused to receive what was offered. Recovery was equally 
beyond my expectations and my wishes. The scene which 
was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, 
most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure 
to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate 
to which I, also, was reserved. 

Three days passed away, in which every hour was ex- 
pected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere so con- 
tagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly ac- 
cumulating, I should yet survive, appears to me nothing 
less than miraculous. That, of so many conducted to this 
house, the only one who passed out of it alive should be 
myself, almost surpasses my belief. 

Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those po- 
tent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and van- 
ished. My strength was revived, and the first use that ] 
made of my limbs was, to bear me far from the coatempC^ 
tJon and sufferance of these evils. 



COr.lMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 319 



Sliipwreck of the Ariel. — Cooper. 

Iriic Ariel continued to struggle against the winds and 
ocean for several hours longer, before the day broke on the 
tenipesiuous scene, and the anxious mariners were enabled 
to form a more accurate estimate of their real danger. As 
the violence of the gale increased, the canvass of the 
schooner had been gradually reduced, until she was unable 
to show more than was absolutely necessary to prevent her 
driving, helplessly, on the land. Barnstable watched the 
appearance of the weather, as the light slowly opened 
upon them, with an intensity of anxiety, which denoted, 
that the presentiments of the cockswain were no longer 
deemed idle. On looking to windward, he beheld the 
green masses of water that were rolling in towards the 
land, with a violence that seemed irresistible, crowned 
with ridges of foam ; and there were moments when the 
air appeared filled with sparkling gems, as the rays of the 
rising sun fell upon the spray that was swept from wave to 
wave. Towards the land, the view was still more appal- 
ling. The cliffs, but a short half league under the lee of 
the schooner, were, at times, nearly hid from the eye by 
the pyramids of water, which the furious element, so sud- 
denly restrained in its violence, cast high into the air, as 
if seeking to overstep the boundaries that nature had affix 
ed to its dominion. The whole coast, from the distant head- 
land at the south, to the well known shoals that stretched 
far beyond their course, in the opposite direction, displayed 
a broad belt of foam, into which it would have been cer- 
tain destruction, for the proudest ship that swam, to have 
entered. Still the Ariel floated on the billows, lightly and 
in safety, though yielding to the impulses of the waters, 
and, at times, appearing to be ingulfed in the yawninsr 
chasms, which, apparently, opened beneath her to receive 
the little fabric. The low rumour of acknowledged dan- 
ger, had found its way through the schooner, and the sea- 
men, after fastening their hopeless looks on the small spot 
of canvass that they were enabled to show to the tempest- 
would turn to view the dreary line of coast, that seem- 
ed to offer so gloomy an alternative. Even Dillon, to whoijc 



520 COMMON-PLACE BOOK DF PROSE. 

the report of their danger had found its way, crept from 
his place of concealment in the cabin, and moved about 
the decks unheeded, devouring, with greedy ears, such 
opinions as fell from the lips of the sullen mariners. 

At this moment of appalling apprehension, the cockswain 
exhibited the most calm resignation. He knew that all 
had been done, that lay in the power of man, to urge their 
little vessel from the land, and it was now too evident to 
his experienced eyes, that it had been done in vain ; but, 
considering himself as a sort of fixture in the schooner, he 
was quite prepared to abide her fate, be it for better or 
for worse. The settled look of glocm, that gathered around 
the frank brow of Barnstable, was, in no degree, connect- 
ed v/ith any considerations of himself, but proceeded from 
that sort of parental responsibility, from v.'hich the sea- 
commander is never exempt. The discipline of the crew, 
however, still continued perfect and unyielding. There 
had, it is true, been a slight movement made by two of the 
oldest seamen, which indicated an intention to drown the 
apprehensions of death in ebriety ; but Barnstable had 
called for his pistols, in a tone that checked the procedure 
instantly, and, although the fatal weapons were untouched 
by him, but were left to lie exposed on the capstan, where 
they had been placed by his servant, not another symptom 
of insubordination appeared among the devoted crew. 
There was even, what to a landsman might seem, a dread- 
ful affectation of attention to the most trifling duties of the 
vessel ; and the men, who, it should seem, ought to be de- 
voting the brief moments of their existence to the mighty 
business of the hour, were constantly called to attend to the 
most trivial details of their profession. Ropes were coiled, 
and the slightest damages occasioned by the waves, that, 
at shcrt intervals, swept across the low decks of the Ariel, 
were repaired, with the same precision and order, as if she 
yet lay embayed in the haven from which she had just been 
driven. In this manner, the arm of authority was kept 
extended over the silent crew, not with the vain desire to 
preserve a lingering, though useless exercise of poT'-er 
but with a view to maintain that unity of action, that laovi 
?ould alone afford them even a ray of hope. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 321 

" She can make no head against this sea, under that rag 
d{ canvass," said Barnstable, gloomily ; addressing the 
cockswain, who, with folded arms, and an air of cool resig- 
nation, was balancing his body on the verge of the quaiter- 
deck, while the schooner was plunging madly into waves 
that nearly buried her in their bosom ; " the poor little 
thing trembles like a frightened child, as she meets the 
water." 

Tom sighed heavily, and shook his head, before he an- 
swered — 

" If we could have kept the head of the main-mast an 
hour longer, we might have got an offing, and fetched (o 
windward of the shoals ; but, as it is, sir, mortal man CLui't 
drive a craft to windward — she sets bodily in to land, an J 
will be in the breakers in less than an hour, unless God 
wills that the winds shall cease to blow." 

" We have no hope left us, but to anchor ; our ground 
tackle may yet bring her up." 

Tom turned to his commander, and replied, solemnly, 
and with that assurance of manner, that long expeiience 
only can give a man in moments of great danger — 

" If our sheet-cable was bent to our heaviest anclior. 
this sea would bring it home, ihough nothing but lior 
launch was riding by it. A north-easter in the German 
Ocean must and will blow itself out ; nor shall we get the 
crown of the gale until the sun falls over the land. Then, 
in.leed, it may lull ; for the winds do often seem to rever- 
ence the glory of the heavens too much to blow their mig'nt 
in its very face !" 

" We must do our duty to ourselves and the country," 
returned Barnstable , '"■ go, get the two bowers sphced, and 
have a kedge bent to a hawser ; we'll back our two an- 
chors together, and veer to the better end of two hundred 
and forty fathoms ; it may yet bring her up. See all clear 
there for anchoring, and cutting away the masts — we'll 
leave the wind nothing but a naked hull to whistle over." 

" Ay, if there was nothing but the wind, we might yet 
live to see the sun sink behind them hills," said the cock- 
swain , " but what 1 ^mp can stand the strain of a crafl 
that is buried, halt the time to har f(>"ema5t in the 
water !" 



S22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

The order was, however, executed by the crew, with a 
sort of desperate submission to the will of their comman- 
der ; and, when the preparations were completed, the an- 
chors and kedge were dropped to the bottom, and the in- 
stant that the Ariel tended to the wind, the axe was ap- 
plied to the little: that was left of her long raking mast= 
I'he crash of the falling spars, as they caaie, in succession, 
across the decks of the vessel, appeared to produce no sen- 
sation amid that scene of complicated danger ; but the sea- 
men proceeded in silence in their hopeless duty of clear- 
ing the wrecks. Every eye followed the floating timbers, 
as the waves swept them away fron\ the vessel, with a sort 
of feverish curiosity, to witness the effect produced by their 
collision with those rocks that lay so fearfully near them ; 
but, long before the spars entered the wide border of foam, 
they were hid from view by the furious element in which 
they floated. It was, now, felt by the whole crew of the 
4riel, that their last means of safety had been adopted, 
and, at each desperate and head'ong plunge the vessel took 
into the bosom of the seas that rolled upon her forecastle, 
the anxious seamen thought they could perceive the yield- 
ing of the iron, that yet clung to the bottom, or could hear 
the violent surge of the parting strands of the cable, that 
still held them to their anchors. While the minds of tbe 
sailors were agitated with the faint hopes that had been 
excited by the movements of their schooner, Dillon had 
been permitted to wander about the vessel unnoticed ; his 
rolling eyes, hard breathing, and clenched hands, exciting 
no observation among the men, whose thoughts were yet 
dwelling on the means of safety. But now, when, with 
a sort of frenzied desperation, he would follow the retiring 
wateii along the decks, and venture his person nigh the 
group that had collected around and on the gun of the cock- 
swain, glances of fierce or of sullen vengeance were cast 
at him, that conveyed threats of a nature that he was too 
much agitated to understand. 

*•■ If ye are tired of this world, though your time, like 
my own, is probably but short in it," said Tom to him, as 
he passed the cockswain in one of his turns, " you can ga 
forward among the men ; but if ye have need of the mo- 
Bfienrs to foot up the reck'ning o!" your doings among roei.*, 



COMMON-PLACE KOOK OF PROSE. 323 

afore ye're brought to face your Maker, and hear the log- 
book of Heaven, I would advise you to keep as nigh as pos- 
sible to Captain Barnstable or myself." 

" Will you promise to save me, if the vessel is wreck- 
ed ?" exclaimed Dillon, catching at the first sounds of 
friendly interest that had reached his ears, since he had 
been recaptured ; " oh ! if j'^ou "will, I can secure you 
future ease ; yes, wealth, for the remainder of your 
days !"' 

" Your promises have been too ill kept, afore this, for the 
peace of your soul," returned the cockswain, without bit- 
terness, though sternly ; " but it is not in me to strike even 
a whale, that is already spouting blood." 

The intercessions of Dillon were interrupted by a dread- 
ful cry, that arose among the men forward, and which 
sounded with increased horror, amid the roaring of the tem- 
pest. The schooner rose on the breast of a wave at the 
same instant, and, falling off with her broad side to the sea, 
slie drove in towards the cliffs, like a bubble on the rapidj 
of a cataract. 

" Our ground tackle has parted," said Tom, with his re- 
signed patience of manner undisturbed ; " she shall die as 
easy as man can make her !" While he jj-et spoke, he seized 
the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction, as would 
be most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows 
foremost. 

There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite 
anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable ; 
but, at the next, it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully 
to his men — 

" Be steady, my lads ; be calm : there is yet a hope of 
life for you — our light draught will let us run in close to 
the cl}u)), and it is still falling water — see your boats clear, 
axid be sieaih'." 

Tlie crew of the whale-boat, aroused, by this speech, 
from a sort of stapor, sprang into their light vessel, which 
was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the 
foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful 
KSertioiis of the men. The cry for the cockswain was 
earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head, without re- 
plying, still qrrasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes stead- 



S24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

ily bent oa the chaos of waters, into which they were 
drivmg. The launch, the largest boat of the two, was cut 
loose from the " gripes," and the bustle and exertion of 
the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of 
the scene that surrounded ihem. But the loud, hoarse 
call of the cockswain, to " look out — secure youi-selves :"' 
suspended even their efforts, and at that instart the Ariel 
settled on a wave that melted from under her. heavily ca 
the rocks. The shock was so violent as to throw all, wh: 
slisregarded the warning cry, from their feet, and the uni- 
versal quiver that pervaded the vessel was Uke the l.i-t 
shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough io 
breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed 
the danger to be passed ; hut a wave of great height fol- 
lowed the one that had deserted them, and, raising the ve3- 
sf-l again, threw her roughly still farther on her bed o? 
n»«-ks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quar- 
ter, sweeping the length of her decks, with a fury that 
was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their 
lessened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed again-t 
the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wrecx 
could be traced, at the receding of the waters. But the 
parsing wave had thrown the vessel into a position which, 
in some measure, protected her decks from the violence oi 
tho3e that succeeded It. 

" Go, my hoys, go," said Barnstable, as the moment of 
.'rcadful uncertainty passed ; " you have still the whale-- 
fjoat, and she, at least, will take you nigh the shore : go 
I'a'o her, my boys ; God bless you, God bless you all ; you 
bare been faithful and honest fellows, and I helieve he 
will not yet desert you ; go, mv friends, while there is 
a lull." 

The seamen threw themselves, in a mass of b'aK:.ia bo<l- 
ies, into the light vessel, which nearly su^ik xindcr the 
unusual burthen ; hut when they 1oo\j^:1 ?.:oisud i!:em. 
Barnstable, and Merry, Dillon, and the eDck?w?.ja, were 
yet to be seen on the decks of the Ariel. Tlie former wa? 
paciHg, in deep, and perhaps bitter melancholy, tlte wtit 
planks of the schooner, while the boy h',:nj, unheeded, o.-i 
his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to hii comraau-'ler, 
o desert the '.sreck. Dillon approached the side %vhere 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 325 

the boat lay, again and again, but the threatening counte 
nances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair. 
Tom had seated hi Jiself on the heel of the bowsprit, where 
he continued, in an attitude of quiet resignation, return- 
ing no other answers to the loud and repeated calls of 
his shipmates, than by waving his hand toward the shore. 

'' Now hear me," said the boy, urging his request to 
tears ; " if not for my sake, or for your own sake, Mr. 
Barnstable, or for the hopes of God's mercy, go into the 
boat, for the love of my cousin Katherine." 

The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk, and, 
for a moment, he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs ; 
lilt, at the next instant, his eyes fell on the ruin of his ves- 
tal, and he answered — 

" Never, boy, never ; if my hour has come, I will not 
phrink from my fate." 

" Listen to the men, dear sir ; the boat will be swamped 
along-side the wreck, and their cry is, that without you 
ihey will not let her go." 

Barnstable motioned to the boat, to bid the boy enter it, 
and turned away in silence. 

" Well," said Merry, with firmness, " if it be right that 
a lieutenant shall stay by a wreck, it must also be right for 
a midshipman; "shove off; neither Mr. Barnstable nor 
myself will quit the vessel." 

" Boy, your life has been intrusted to my keeping, and 
at m> hands will it be required," said his commander, lift- 
ing the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of 
the seamen. " Away with ye, and God be with you ; 
Ihere is more weight in you, now, than can go safe to 
land." 

Still, the seamen hesitated, for they perceived the cock- 
swain moving, with a steady tread, along the deck, and 
<hey hoped he had relented, and would yet persuade the 
lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the ex- 
ample of his. commander, seized the latter, suddenly, in 
his powerful grasp, ancf threw him over the bulwarks with 
an irresistible foixe. At the same moment, he cast the 
last of the boat from the pin that held it, and, lifting hig 
broad hands i.igh ii to the air, his voice was heard m the 
•vt.. »est. 

28 



S26 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSt. 

*' God's will be done with me," be cried ; " I s^w the 
first timber of tbe Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough 
to see it torn out of her bottom ; after which I wish to Uve 
no longer." 

But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds ol 
his TMce, before half these words were uttered. All com- 
mand of the boat was rendered impossible, by the num- 
bers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf: and, 
as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his be- 
loved little craft for the last time ; it fell into a trough of 
the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were 
ground into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The cock- 
swain still remained where he had cast off the rope, and 
beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, 
at short intervals, on the waves ; some making powerful 
and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were be- 
coming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in 
the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old 
seaman gave a cry of joy, as he saw Barnstable issue from 
the surf, bearing the form of Merry in safety to the sands, 
where, one by one, several seamen soon appeared also, 
dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were 
carried, in a similar manner, to places of safety ; though, 
as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not 
conceal, from his reluctant eyes, the lifeless forms, that 
were, in other spots, driven against the rocks, with a fury 
that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of hu- 
manity. 

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants 
of their dreadful station. The former stood, in a kind of 
stupid despair, a witness of the scene we have related ; 
but, as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly 
tt-ough his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, 
with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless 
misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with 
another. 

'•' When the tide falls," he said, tn a voice that betrayed 
the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal 
>f hope, '•' we shall be able to walk to land." 

'* There was One, and only One, to whose feet the wa 
lers were the same as a drv deck," returned the cock 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSR. 3^7 

swain ; " and none but such as have his power will eve! 
be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old 
seaman paused, and, turning his eyes, which exhibited t, 
mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his com- 
panion, he added, with reverence — " Had you thought 
more of him in fair weather, your case would be less to be 
pitied in this tempest." 

" Do you still think there is much danger ?" »asked 
Dillon. 

" To them that have reason to fear death : listen ! do you 
hear that hollow noise beneath ye ?" 

" 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel !" 

" 'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cock- 
swain, " giving her last groans. The water is breaking 
up her decks, and, in a few minutes more, the handsomest 
model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell 
from her timbers in framing !" 

" Why, then, did you remain here ?" cried Dillon, 
wildly. 

" To die in my cofSn, if it should be the will of God," 
returned Tom : " these waves to me are what the land is 
to you ; I was born on them, and I have always meant that 
they should be my grave." 

" But I — 1," shrieked Dillon, " I am not ready to die ! — 
I cannot die ! — I will not die !" 

" Poor wretch !" muttered his companion ; "you must 
go, like the rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, 
none can skulk from the muster." 

" I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing, with frantic 
eagerness, to the side of the wreck. " Is there no billet 
of wood, no rope, that I can take with me ?" 

" None ; every thing has been cut away, or carried off 
by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take 
with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the 
rest to God !" 

" God !" echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy ; 
" I know no God ! there is no God that knows me !" 

'* Peace '" said the deep tones of the cockswain, 'in j\ 
voice that seemed to speak in the eJemeotsj " blasphecier, 
peace !'•' 



528 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

The heavy groaning, produced by the water, in the tho. 
bers of the Ariel, at that moment, added its impulse t<j 
the raging feelings of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong 
into the sea. 

The water, thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach j, 
was necessarily returned to the ocean, in eddias, In differ- 
ent places, favourable to such an action of the element. 
Into the edge of one of these counter-currents, that was 
produced by the very rocks on which the schooner lay, and 
v/hich the watermen call the " under-tow," Dillon had, 
unknowingly, thrown his person, and when the waves had 
driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was met 
by a stream that his most desperate efforts could not over- 
come. He was a light and powerful swimmer, and the 
struggle was hard and protracted. With the shore imme- 
diately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he was 
led, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although 
they did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who, 
at first, had watched his motions with careless indifference, 
understood the danger of his situation at a glance, and, for- 
getful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a voice that 
was driven over the struggling victim, to the ears of his 
shipmates on the sands — 

" Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! sheer to the 
southward !" 

Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much 
obscured by terror to distinguish their object ; he, how- 
ever, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his 
direction, until his face was once more turned towards the 
Tessel. The current swept him diagonally by the rocks, 
and he was forced into an eddy, where he had nothing to 
contend against but tiie v/aves, whose violence was much 
broken by the wreck. In this state he continued still to 
btruggle, but with a force that was too much weakened to 
overcome the resistance he met. Tom looked around him 
for a rope, but not one presented itself to his hands ; all 
had^oue over with the spars, or been swept away by the 
waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met 
those of the desperate Dillon. Calm, and inured to hor- 
rors, as was the veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed 
bis hand be • ore his brow, as if to exclude the look of despau 



COUMON-PLACE BOOK, OF PROSE. 329 

he encountered ; and when, a moment afterwardSj he re- 
moved the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form 0/ 
the victim, as it gradually settled in the ocean, .still strug- 
ghng, with regular but impotent strokes of the arms and 
feet, to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that 
had been so much abused in its hour of allotted proba- 
tion. 

" He will soon know his God, and learn that his God 
knows him !" murmured the cockswain to himself. Ashe 
yet spoke, the wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelm- 
ing sea, and, after a universal shudder, her timbers and 
planks gave way, and were swept towards the cliffs, bear- 
ing the body of the simple-hearted cockswain among the 
ruins. 



Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages. — 
Miss Sedgwick. 

All was joy in Mrs. Fletcher's dwelling. " My 



dear mother," said Everell, " it is now quite time to look 
out for father and Hope Leslie. I have turned the hour- 
glass three times since dinner, and counted all the sands, I 
think. Let us all go on the front portico, where we can 
catch the first glimpse of them, as they come past the elm 
trees. Here, Oneco," he continued, as he saw assent in 
his mother's smile, " help me out with mother's rocking 
chair : rather rough rocking," — he added, as he adjusted 
the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the floor- 
ing, — " tut mother won't mind trifles just now. Ah ! 
I: lessed babe, brother," he continued, taking in his arms 
Ihe beautiful infant, " you shall come, too, even though 
yiu cheat me out of my birthright, and get the first em- 
brace from father." Thus saying, he placed the laughing 
infant in his go-cart, beside his mother. He then aided 
Jus little sisters in their arrangement of the playthings they 
bad brought forth to welcome and astonish Hope ; and 
finally he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie, where 
she might, he said, as she ought, catch the very first glimpse 
it }jer sister. 
23 * 



S30 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOS2. 

" Thank, thank you, Everell," «aid the little gu-I, as sh* 
mounted her pinn^^cle : "if ^-ou knew Hope, you would 
want to see her first, too ; every body loves Hope. We 
shall always have pleasant times when Hope gets here." 

It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at the close 
of the month of May. The lagging Spring had at last 
come forth in all her power ; " her work of gladness" was 
finished, and forests, fields and meadows were bright with 
renovated life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly 
on, as if still exulting in its release from the fetters of win- 
ter. Every gushing rill had the spring-note of joy. The 
meadows were, for the first time, enriched with patches 
of English grain, which the new settlers had soun scantily, 
Dy way of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest 
portion of the rich mould whh the native Indian corn 
This product of our soil is beautiful in all its progress, from 
the moment when, £?3 now it studded the meadow with hil- 
locks, shooting its bright pointed spear from its mother 
earth, to its maturit^^, y/hen the long golden ear bursts from 
the rustling leaf. 

The grounds about Mrs. Fletcher's house had been pre- 
pared with the neatness of English taste ; and a rich bed 
of clover, that overspread the lawn immediately before the 
portico, already rewarded the industry of the cultivators. 
Over this delicate carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civ- 
ilized inhabitants of the country of their tribe, were now 
treading, picking their food here and there like dainty little 
epicures. 

The scene had also its minstrels ; the birds, those min- 
isters and worshippers of nature, were on. the wing, filling 
the a r with melody, while, like diligent little housewives, 
they ransacked the forest and field for materials for their 
house-keeping. 

A msther, encircled by healthful, sporting children, is 
always a beautiful spectacle — a spectacle that appeals to 
nature in every human breast. Mrs. Fletcher, in obedi- 
ence to matrimonial duty, or, it may be, from some lingering 
of female vanity, had on this occasion attired herself with 
extraordinary care. What woman does not wish to looi 
handsome in the ey >s of her husband ! 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 331 

" Mother," said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely 
fine lace that shaded her cheek, " I do not beUeve you look- 
ed more beautiful than you do to-day, when, as I have 
heard, Ihey called you ' the rose of the wilderness.' Our 
little Mary's cheek is as round and as bright as a peach, 
but It is not so handsome as yours, mother. Your heart 
has sent this colour here," he continued, kissing her tender- 
ly ; " it seems to have come forth to tell us that our father 
IS near." 

" It would shame me, Everell," replied his mother, em- 
bracing him with a feeling that the proudest drawing-room 
belle might have envied, " to take such flattery from any 
lips but thine." — " Oh, do not call it flattery, mother — ■ 
look, Magawisca — for Heaven's sake cheer up — look, would 
you know mother's eye ? just turn it, mother, one minute 
from that road — and her pale cheelc too — with this rich 
colour on it ?" 

" Alas ! alas !" replied Magawisca, glancing her eyes 
at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart struck, withdrawing 
them, " how soon the flush of the setting sun fades from 
the evening cloud !" 

"Oh, Magawisca!" said Everell, ii ipatiently, "why 
are you so dismal ? your voice is too sweet for a bird of 
ill-omen. I shall begin to think as Jennet says — though 
Jennet is no text book for me — I shall begin to think old 
Neleraa has really bewitched you." — " You call me a bird 
of ill-omen," replied Magawisca, half proud, half sorrow- 
ful, " and you call the owl a bird of ill-omen, but we hold 
him sccred ; he is our sentinel, and, when danger is near, 
he cries, ' Awake ! awake !' " 

" Magawisca, you are positively unkind. Jeiemiah'g 
lamentations on a holyday would not be mxOre out of time 
than your croaking is now. The very skies, earth, and air, 
seem to partake of our joy at father's return, and you only 
make a discord, Do you think, if your father was near, I 
woulu not share your joy ?" 

Tears fell fast from Magawisca's eyes, but she made no 
reply, and Mrs. Fletcher, observing and compassionating 
her emotion, and thinking it probably arose from comparing 
her orphan state to that of the merry children about her, 
called her, and said^ " Magawisca, you are ncsithcr a stran. 



a62 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

ger nor a servant ; will you not share our joy ? lo yoa 
not love us =" 

" Love you T" she exclaimed, clasping her haiids, "love 
you ! I would give my life for you." 

•' We do not ask your life, my good girl," replied Mrs. 
Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, «•' but a light heart, and 
a cheerful look. A sad countenance doih not become this 
joyful hour Go and help Oneco ; he is quite out of breath 
blowing those soap bubbles for the children." Oneco 
smiled, and shook his head, and continued to send off one 
after another of the prismatic globes, and, as they rose and 
floated on the air, and brightened with the many-colour- 
ed ray, the little girls clapped their hands, and the baby 
stretched his to grasp the brilliant vapour. " Oh !" said 
Magawisca. impetuously covering her eyes, '• I do not 
Like to see any thing so beaudful pass so quickly away." 

Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly, 
as if the earth had opened on them, three Indian warriors 
darted from the forest, and pealed on the air their horrible 
yells. 

" My father I my father I" burst from the lips of Ma- 
gawisca and Oneco. Faith Leslie sprang towards the In- 
dian boy, and clung fast to him, and the children clustered 
about their mother ; she instinctively caught her infant, 
and held it close within her arms, as if their ineffectual 
shelter were a rampart. 

Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and, springing for- 
ward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating his approach, 
she sunk down at her father's feet, and, clasping her hands, 
'•' Save them ! — save them 1" she cried ; " the mother — the 
children — oh ! they are all good : take vengeance on your 
enemies, but spare, spare our friends I our benefactors I I 
bleed when they are struck; oh I command them to stop !*' 
she screamed, looking to the companions of her father, who, 
unchecked by her cries, were pressing on to their deadly 
work. 

Mononotto was silent and motionless : his eye glanced 
wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca replied to 
the glance of fire : " Yes, they have sheltered us — they 
have spread the wing of love over us — save them — save 
them — oh '. it will be too late," she cried, springing fron 



COMMON-PLACE BOOiv OF PROSE. 333 

her father, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his 
better nature rebelled against the work of revenge, there 
was no relenting of purpose. Magawisca darted before the 
Indian, who was advancing towards Mrs. Fletcher with an 
uplifted hatchet. " You shall hew nie to pieces ere you 
touch her," she said, and planted herself as a shield before 
her benefactress. The warrior's obdurate heart, untouch- 
ed by the sight of the helpless mother and her little ones, 
was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl • he paused, 
and grimly smiled on her, when his companion, crying, 
" Hasten ! the dogs will be on us !" levelled a deadly blow 
at Mrs. Fletcher ; but his uplifted arm was penetrated by 
^ musket shot, and the hatchet fell harmless to the floor. 

" Courage, mother!" cried Everell, reloading the piece ; 
but neither courage nor celerity could avail : the second 
Indian sprang upon him, threw him on the floor, wrested 
his musket from him, and, brandishing his tomahawk over 
his head, he would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a 
cry from Mononotto arrested his arm. 

Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and, a ray of 
hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle horn, which 
hung beside the door, and winded it. This was the con- 
ventional signal of alarm, and he sent forth a blast long 
and loud — a death-cry. 

Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just mounting 
their horses to return home. Digby listened for a moment : 
then, exclaiming, " It comes from our i <ter's dwelling ! 
ride for your life, Hutton !" he tossjd away a bandbox that 
encumbered him, and spurred his horse to its utmost speed. 

The alarm was spread through the village, and, in a briet 
space, Mr. Pynchon, with six armed men, was pressing 
towards the fatal scene. In the mean time the tragedy 
♦vas proceeding at Bethel. Mrs, Fletcher's senses had 
been stunned with terror. She had neither spoken nor 
moved after she grasped her infant. Everell's gallant in- 
tei position restored a momentary consciousness; she scream- 
ed to him, " Fly; Everell, my son, fly ; for your father's 
sake, fly !" 

" Never!" he replied, springing to his mother's side. 

The sivages, always rapid in their movements, werf 
«ow aware that their safety depended on despatch. '* Fin 



S34 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Ish your work, warriors !" cried Mononotto. Obedient to 
the command, and infuriated by his bleeding wound, the 
Indian, who, on receiving the shot, had staggered back, 
and leaned against the wall, now sprang forward, and tore 
the infant from its mother's breast. She shrieked, and 
in that shriek passed the agony of death. She was un- 
conscious that her son, putting forth a strength beyond na- 
ture, for a moment kept the Indian at bay ; she neither 
saw nor felt the knife struck at her own heart. She felt 
not the arms of her defenders, Everell and Magawisca, as 
they met around her neck. She fainted and fell to the floor, 
dragging her impotent protectors with her. 

The savage, in his struggle with Everell, had tossed the 
infant bay to the ground : he fell, quite unharmed, on the 
turf at Mononotto's feet ; there, raising his head, and look- 
ing up into the chieftain's face, he probably perceived a 
gleam of mercy ; for, with the quick instinct of infancy, 
that with unerring sagacity directs its appeal, he clasped 
the naked leg of the savage with one arm, and stretched 
the other towards him with a piteous supplication, that no 
words could have expressed. 

Mononotto's heart melted within him : he stooped to 
raise the sweet suppliant, when one of the Mohawks fierce- 
ly seized him, tossed him wildly around his head, and dash- 
ed him on the door-stone. But the silent prayer, perhaps 
the celestial inspiration of the innocent creature, was not 
lost. " We have had blood enough," cried Mononotto ; 
" you have well avenged me, brothers." 

Then, looking at Oneco, who had remained in one cor- 
ner of the portico, clasping Faith Leslie in his arms, he 
comm.anded him to follow him with the child. Everell was 
torn from the lifeless bodies of his mother and sisters, and 
dragged into the forest. Magawisca uttered one cry of 
agony and despair, as she looked for the last time on the 
bloody scene, and then followed her father. 

As they passed the boundary of the cleared ground, 
Mononotto tore from Oneco his English dress, and, casting 
it from him, " Thus perish," he said, " every mark of the 
captivity of my children. Thou shalt return to our forests,'* 
he continued, wrapping a skin around him, " v/ith tha 
badge of thy peor'e." *- h *«•*»»* . 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 336 

We hope our readers will not think we have wantonly 
aported with their feelings, by drawing a picture of calam- 
ity that only exists in the fictitious tale. No — such evenlg 
as we have feebly related were common in our early an- 
nals, and attended by horrors that it would be impossible 
for the imagination to exaggerate. Not only families, but 
villages, were cut off by the most dreaded of all foes — the 
ruthless, vengeful savage. 

In the quiet possession of the blessings transmitted, we 
are, perhaps, in danger of forgetting or undervaluing the 
sufferings by which they were obtained. We forget that 
the noble pilgrims lived and endured for us ; that, when 
they came to the wilderness, they said truly, though, it may 
be, somewhat quaintly, that they turned their backs on 
Egypt. They did virtually renounce all dependence on 
earthly support ; they left the land of their birth, of their 
homes, of their fathers' sepulchres ; they sacrificed ease 
and preferment, and all the delights of sense — and for 
what ? — to open for themselves an earthly paradise ? — to 
dress their bowers of pleasure, and rejoce with their wives 
and children ? No ! — they came not for themselves ; they 
lived not to themselves. An exiled and suffering people, 
they came forth in the dignity of the chosen servants of 
the Lord, to open the forests to the sun-beam, and to the 
light of the Sun of righteousness; to restore man, man, 
oppressed and trampled on by his fellov/, to religious and 
civil liberty and equal rights ; to replace the creatures of 
God on their natural level ; to bring down the hills, and 
make smooth the rough places, which the pride and cruel- 
ty of m^n had wrought on the fair creation of the Father 
of all. 

What was their reward ? Fortune ? — distinctions ? — the 
sweet charities of home ? . No — but their feet were plant- 
ed on the mount of vision, and they saw, with sublime joy, 
a multitude of people where the solitary savage roamed 
the forest ; the forest vanished, and pleasant villages and 
busy cities appeared ; the tangled foot-path expanded to 
the thronged highway; the consecrated church was planted 
on the rock of heathen sacrifice. 

And, that sve might realize this vision, — enter into thisj 
promised land of faith, — they endured hardship, and braved 



336 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

deathj deeming, as Said one of their company, that " he i^ 
not worthy to live at all, who, for fear of danger or deatt, 
shunneth his country's service or his own honour — since 
death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue immortal " 

If these were the fervours of enthusiasm, it was an en 
thusiasm kindled and fed by the holy tlame that glows on 
the altar of God ; an enthusiasm that never abatesj but 
gathers life and strength as the immortal soul expands in 
the image of its Creator. 



The Emigranfs Abode in Ohio. — Fli:s't 

Ix making remoter journeys from the town, beside the 
rivulets, and in the little bottoms not yet in cultivation, I 
discerned the smoke rising in the woods, and heard the 
stroi:es of the axe, the tinkling of bells, and the baying of 
dogs, and saw the newly-arrived emigrant either raising 
his log cabin, or just entered into possession. It has afford- 
ed me more pleasing reiieetions, a happier train of associ- 
ations, to contemplate these beginnings of social toil in the 
wide wilderness, than, in our more cultivated regions, to 
come in view of the most sumptuous mansion. Nothing 
can be more beautiful than these little bottoms, upon which 
these emigrants deposit, if I may so say, their household 
gods. Springs burst forth in the intervals between the 
high and low grounds. The trees and shrubs are of the 
most beautiful kind. The brilliant red-bird is seen flitting 
among the shrubs, or, perched on a tree, seems welcoming, 
in her mellow notes, the emigrant to his abode. Flocks 
of paroquets are glittering among the trees, and gray squir- 
rels are skipping from branch to branch. In the midst of 
these primeval scenes, the patient and laborious father fixes 
his family. In a few weeks they have reared a comforta- 
ble cabin and other outbuildings. Pass this place in two 
\-ears, and you will see extensive fields of corn and wheat, 
a young and thrifty orchard, fruit trees of all kinds, — the 
guarantee of present abundant subsistence, and of future 
luxury. Pass it in ten years, and the log buildings will 
have disappeared. The shrubs and forest trees will be 



COxMMOff-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 337 

gone. The Arcadian aspect of humble and retired abun- 
dance and comfort will have given place to a brick house, 
with accompaniments like those that attend the same kind 
of house in the older countries. By this time, the occu- 
pant, who came there, perhaps, with a small sum of money, 
and moderate expectations, from humble life, and with no 
more than a common school education, has been made, in 
succession, member of the assembly, justice of the peace, 
and finally county judge. I admit that the first residence 
among the trees affords the most agreeable picture to my 
mind ; and that there is an inexpressible charm in the 
pastoral simplicity of those years, before pride and self- 
consequence have banished the repose of their Eden, and 
when you witness the first strugglings of social toil with 
the barren luxuriance of nature. 



Melancholy Decay of ths Indians. -^C ass. 

Neither the government nor people of the United 
States have any wish to conceal from themselves, nor from 
the world, that there is upon their frontiers a wretched, 
forlorn people, lookmg to them for support and protection, 
and possessing strong claims upon their justice and human- 
ity. Those people received our forefathers in a spirit of 
friendship, aided them to endure privations and sufferings, 
and taught them how to provide for many of the wants with 
which they were surrounded. The Indians were then strong, 
and we were weak ; and, without looking at the change 
which has occurred in any spirit of morbid affectation, but 
with the feelings of an age accustomed to observe great mu- 
tations in the fortunes of nations and of individuals, we may 
express our regret that they have lost so much of what 
we have gained. The prominent points of their history 
are before the world, and will go down unchanged to pos- 
terity. In the revolution of a few ages, this tair portion 
of the continent, which was theirs, has passed mto our pos 
session. The forests, which afforded them food and security, 
where were their cradles, their homes and their graves 
29 



33S COMMON-PLACI BOOK OF PROSE. 

have disappeared, or are disappearing, before the progresf 
of civilization. 

We have extinguished their council fires, and ploughed 
up the hones of their fathers. Their population has di- 
minished with lamentable rapidity. Those tribes that re- 
main, like the lone column of a falling temple, exhibit but 
the sad relics of their former strength ; and many others 
live only in the names, which have reached through the 
earlier accounts of travellers and historians. The causes, 
which have produced this physical desolation, are yet in 
constant and active operation, and threaten to leave us, at 
no distant day, without a living proof of Indian sufferings, 
from the Atlantic to the immense desert, v.hich sweeps 
along the base of the Rocky Mountains. Nor can we 
console ourselves with the reflection, that their physical 
condition has been counterbalanced by any melioration in 
their moral condition. We have taught them neither how 
to live, nor how to die. They have been equally station- 
ary in their manners, habits and opinions ; in every thing 
but their numbers and their happiness ; and, altliough ex- 
isting, for more than six generations, in contact with a civ- 
ilized people, they owe to them no one valuable improve- 
ment in the arts, nor a single principle which can restrain 
their passions, or give hope to despondence, motive to ex- 
ertion, or confidence to virtue. 

Efforts, however, have not been wanting to reclaim the 
Indians from their forlorn condition ; but with what hope- 
less results, we have only to cast our eyes upon them to 
ascertain. Whether the cause of this failure must be 
sought in the principles of these efforts, or in their appli- 
cation, has not yet been satisfactorily determined ; but the 
important experiments, which are now making, will proba- 
bly, ere long, put the question at rest. During more than 
a century, great zeal was displayed by the French court, 
and by many of the dignified French ecclesiastics, for the 
conversion of the American aborigines in Canada ; and 
learned, and pious, and zealous men devoted themselves, 
wi\h lioble ardour and intrepidity, to this generous work : 
at what immense personal sacrifices, v/e can never fully 
estimate. And it is melancholy to contrast their privatiom 
and sufferings, living and dying, with the fleetmg memori 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 339 

als of their labours. A few external ceremonies, affecting 
neither the head nor the heart, and which are retained hke 
idle legends among some of the aged Indians, are all that 
remain to preserve the recollection of their spiritual fa- 
thers ; and I have stood upon the ruins of St. Ignace, on 
the shores of Lake Huron, their principal missionary estab- 
lishment, indulging those melancholy reflections, which 
must always press upon the mind, amid the fallen monu- 
ments of human piety. 



Object and Success of the Missionary Enterprise. — 

Wayland. 

Our object will not have been accomplished till the 
tomahawk shall be buried forever, and tlie tree of peace 
spread its broad branches from the Atlantic to the Pacific ; 
until a thousand smiling villages shall be reflected from 
the waves of the Missouri, and the distant valleys of thi. 
West echo with the song of the reaper ; till the wilderness 
and the solitary place shall have been glad for us, and the 
desert has rejoiced, and blossomed as the rose. 

Our labours are not to cease, until the last elave-shij 
shall have visited the coast of Africa, and, the nations of 
Europe and America having long since redressed her ag- 
gravated wrongs, Ethiopia, from the Mediterranean to the 
Cape, shall have stretched forth her hand unto God. 

How changed will then be the face of Asia ! Bramlns, 
and sooders, and castes, and shasters, will have passed away, 
like the mist which rolls up the mountain's side before the 
rising glories of a summer's morning, while the land on 
which it rested, shining forth in all its loveliness, slsall, 
from its numberless habitations, send forth the high praises 
of God and the Lamb. The Hindoo mother will gaze upon 
her infant with the same tenderness, which throbs in the 
breast of any one of you who now hears me, and the; Hin- 
doo son will pour into the wounded bosom of his wi lowed 
parent the oil of peace and consolation. 

In a word, point us to the loveliest village that smiles 
upon a Scottish or New England landscape, and compar* 



S40 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

it witli the filthiness and brutalit}- of a Caffrarian kraal 
and we tell you, that our object is to render that Caffrari- 
an kraal as happy and as gladsome as that Scottish or New 
England village. Point us to the spot on the face of thft 
earth, where liberty is best understood and most perfectly 
enjoyed, where intellect shoots forth in its richest luxuri- 
ance, and v.here all the kindher feelings of the heart are 
constantly seen in their most graceful exercise ; point us 
to the loveliest, and happiest neighbourhood in the world, 
on which we dwell ; and we tell you, that our object is to 
render this whole earth, with all its narions, and kindreds, 
and tongues, and people, as happy, nay, happier, than that 
neighbourhood. 

We do heUeve, that God so loved the world, that he gave 
his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him 
should not perish, but have everlasting life. Our object is 
to convey to those who are perishing the news of this sal- 
vation. It is to furnish every family upon the face of the 
whole earth with the Word of God written in its own lan- 
guage, and to send to ever\- neighbourhood a preacher of 
the cross of Christ. Our object will not be accomplished 
until every idol temple shall have been utterly abolished, 
and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room ; until this 
earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal beings 
are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall be- 
come one universal temple, in which the children of men 
are learning the anthems of the blessed above, and be- 
coming meet to join the general assembly and church of 
the first born, whose names are written in heaven. Oui 
design will not be completed until 

" One song employs all nations, and all cry, 
' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain fur us •,' 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other ; and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flying joy; 
Till, nation after nation taught the strau), 
Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna roujid." 

The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every 
child of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its opeiv> 
tions are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every 
individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation 
can bestow. It would rescue a world from the indiscnatios 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 341 

and vvrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every son 
of man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honour, 
and immortality. You see, then, that our object is, noi 
only to affect every individual of the species, but to affec 
him in the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and 
infinite wo. And now, we ask, what object, ever under- 
taken by man, can compare with this same design of evan- 
gelizing the world ? Patriotism itself fades away before 
it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which 
seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and 
eternal destinies of the whole family of man. 

And now, my hearers, deliberately consider the nature 
of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of 
its object; the high moral and intellectual, powers which 
are to be called forth in its execution ; the simplicity, be- 
nevolence, and efficacy, of the means by which all this is 
to be achieved ; and we ask you, Does not every other en- 
terprise, to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle 
into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified 
to a lost and perishing world ? 

Engaged in such an object, and supported by such an 
assurance, you may readily suppose, we can very well 
bear the contempt of those who would point at us the fin- 
ger of scorn. It is written, " In the last days there shall be 
scoffers." We regret that it should be so. We regret that 
men should oppose an enterprise, of which the chief object 
is, to turn sinners unto holiness. We pity them, and we 
will pray for them. For we consider their situation far 
other than enviable. We recollect that it was once said 
by the Divine Missionary, to the first band which he com- 
missioned, " He that despiseth you despiseth me, and 
he that despiseth me despiseth him that sent me." So 
that this very contempt may, at last, involve them in a 
controversy infinitely more serious than they at present 
anticipate. The reviler of missions, and the missiorary of 
the cross, must both stand before the judgment seat of him 
who said, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel 
to every creature." It is affecting to think, that, whilst 
the one, surrounded by the nation who, through his instru- 
mentality, have been rescued from everlasting death, shall 
receive the plaudit, " Well done, good and faithful serv ant!" 
29* 



842 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 

the other may be numbered among those despisers, who 
wonder and perisli. " O that they might know, even m 
this their day, the things which belong to their peace, be 
fore they are hidden from their eyes !" 

You can also easily perceive how it is that we are not 
soon disheartened by those who tell us of the difficulties, 
nay, the hopelessness, of our undertaking. They may 
point us to countries once the seat of the church, now 
overspread with Mohammedan delusion ; or, bidding us 
look at nations, who once believed as we do, now contend- 
ing for what we consider fatal error, they may assure us 
that our cause is declining. To all this we have two an- 
swers. First, the assumption that our cause is declining, 
is utterly gratuitous. We think it not difficult to prove, 
that the distinctive principles we so much venerate, never 
swayed so powerful an influence over the destinies of the 
human race as at this very moment. Point us to those 
nations of the earth, to whom moral and intellectual culti- 
vation, inexhaustible resources, progress in arts, and saga- 
city in council, have assigned the highest rank in political 
importance, and you point us to nations whose religious 
opinions are most closely allied to those we cherish. Be- 
sides, when was there a period, since the days of the 
apostles, in which so many converts have been made to 
these principles, as have been made, both from Christian 
and Pagan nations, within the last five-and-twenty years ? 
Never did the people of the saints of the Most High look 
so much like going forth, in serious earnest, to take pos- 
session of the kingdom, and dominion, and the greatness of 
the kingdom, under the whole heaven, as at the present 
day. We see, then, nothing in the signs of the times, 
which forebodes a failure, but every thing which promises 
that our undertaking will prosper. But, secondly, suppose 
the cause did seem declining ; we should see no reason to 
relax our exertions ; for Jesus Christ has said, " Preach the 
Gospel to every creature." Appearances, wh:^ther pros- 
perous or adverse, alter not the obligation to obey a posi- 
tive command of Almighty God. 

Again, suppose all that is affirmed were true. Il it must 
be, let it be. Let the dark cloud of infidelity overspread 
Europe, cross the ocean, and cover our own beloved land 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE:. 343 

Let nation after nation swerve from the faith Let iniqui- 
ty abound, and tlie love of many wax cold, even until there 
is on the face of the earth but one pure church of ou*- 
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. All we 'isk is, that we 
may be members of that one church. God grant that we 
may throw ourselves into this Thermopylai of the mora] 
universe. 

But, even then, we should have no fear that the church 
of God would be exterminated. We would call to remem- 
brance the years of the right hand of the Most High. We 
would recollect there was once a time, when the whole 
church of Christ not only could be, but actually was, gath- 
ered with one accord in one place. It was then that that 
p]?ce was shaken as with a rushing, mighty wind, and they 
were all filled with the Holy Ghost. That same day, three 
tliousand were added to the Lord. Soon we hear they 
have filled Jerusalem with their doctrine. The church 
has commenced her march. Samaria has with one accord 
believed the Gospel. Antio^h has become obedient to the 
faith. The name of Christ has been proclaimed through- 
out Asia Minor. The temples of the gods, as though 
smitten by an invisible hand, are deserted. The citizens 
of Ephesus cry out in despair, " Great is Diana of the 
Ephesians !" Licentious Corinth is purified by the preach- 
ing of Christ crucified. Persecution puts forth her arm to 
arrest the spreading "superstition." But the progress of 
the faith cannot be stayed. The church of God advances 
unhurt, amidst rocks and dungeons, persecutions and death ; 
yea, " smiles at the drawn dagger, and defies its point." 
She has entered Italy, and appears before the walls of the 
Eternal City. Idolatry fails prostrate at her approach. 
Her ensigns float in triumph over the capitol. She has 
placed upon her brow the diadem of the Caisars ' 



Mimt Blanc in the Gleam of Sunset. — Griscom. 

We arrived, before sundown, at the village of St. Mar- 
tin, where we were to stay for the night. The evening 
being remarkably fine, we ciossed the Arve on a beautiful 



344 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

bridge, and walked over to Salenche, a very consideraMs 
village, opposite to St. Martin, and ascended a lull to vievr 
Ihe effect of the sun's declining light upon Mont Blanc. 
The scene was truly grand. The broad range of the moun- 
tain was fully before us, of a pure and almost glowing 
white, apparently to its very base ; and which, contrasted 
with the brown tints of the adjoining r^ountains, greatly 
heightened the novelty of the scene. We could scarcely 
avoid the conclusion, that this vast pile of &now was very 
near us, and yet its base was not less than fifteen, and its 
summit, probably, more than twenty miles from the place 
where we stood. The varying rays of light produced by 
reflection from the snow, passing, as the sun's rays de- 
clined, from a brilliant white through purple and pink, and 
ending in the gentle light, which the snow gives after the 
sun has set, afforded an exhibition in optics upon a scale of 
grandeur, which no other region in the world could proba- 
bly excel. Never in my life have my feelings been so 
powerfully affected by merely scenery as they were in 
this day's excursion. The excitement, though attended 
by sensations awfully impressive, is nevertheless so finely 
attempered by the glow of novelty incessantly mingled 
with astonishment and admiration, as to produce on the 
whole a feast of delight. 

A lew years ago, I stood upon Table Rock, and placed 
my cane in the descending flood of Niagara. Its tremen- 
dous roar almost entirely precluded conversation with the 
friend at my side ; while its whirlwind of mist and foam 
filled the air to a great distance around me. The rainbow 
sported in its bosom ; the gulf below exhibited the wild 
fury of an immense boiling caldron ; while the rapids 
Sibove, for the s} ace of nearly a mile, appeared like a moun- 
tain of billows chafing and dashing against each other with 
thundering impetuosity, in their eager strife to gain the 
precipice, and take the awful leap. In contemplating this 
scene, my imagination and my heart were filled with sub- 
lime and tender emotions. The soul seemed to be brought 
a step nearer to the presence of that incomprehensible Be- 
ings whose spirit dwelt in every feature of the cataract, aid 
directed all its amazing energies. Yet in the scenery of 
chh dviv there was more of a pervading sense of awful and 



COMMON-PLACE ROOK OF PROSE. 345 

anlimited grandeur : mountain piled upon mountain in end- 
less continuity throughout the whole extent, and crowned 
by the brightest effulgence of an evening sun, upon the 
everlasting snows of the highest pinnacle of Europe. 



Contrast in the Characters of Cicero and JLtticus. — 

BUCKMINSTER. 

Tii"E history of lett:5rs does not, at this moment, suggest 
to me a more fortunate parallel between the effects of active 
and of inactive learning, than in the well known charac- 
ters of Cicero and Atticus Let me hold them up to your 
observation, not because Cicero was faultless, or Atticus 
always to blame, but because, like you, they were the cit- 
izens of a republic. They lived in an age of learning and 
of dangers, and acted upon opposite principles, when Roir.e 
was to be saved, if saved at all, by the virtuous energy of 
her most accomplished minds. 

If vv'e look now for Atticus, we find him in the quiet of 
his library, surrounde-d by his books; while Cicero was 
passing through the regular course of public honours and 
services, where all the treasures of his mind were at the 
command of his country. If we follow them, we find At- 
ticus pleasantly wandering among the ruins of Atlienss, 
purchasing up statues and antiques ; while Cicero was at 
home, blasting the projects of Catiline, and, at the head of 
the senate, like the tutelary spirit of his country, as the 
storm was gathering, secretly watching the doubtful move- 
ments of Cfesar. If we look to the period of the civil 
wars, we find Atticus always reputed, indeed, to belong to 
the party of the friends of liberty, yet originally dear tc 
Sylli, ard intimate with Clodius, recommending himself 
tu Ca.yr by his neutrality, courted by Antony, and con- 
iiiiOted vath Octavius, poorly concealing the Epicureanism 
of h:.\i principles under the ornaments of literature and the 
-p!:n..!i'>vr of his benefactions ; till at last this inoffensive 
md p'j'ished friend of successive usurpers hastens out of 
lif'j to escape from the pains of a lingering disease. Turn 



3^b COM3IOX- PLACE BOOK OF FROSK. 

BOW to Cicero, the only great man at whom Cssar always 
tre'i3bled, the only great man, whom falling Rome did noi 
fear. Do you tell me that his hand once offered incease 
to tli3 dictator ? Remember, it was the gift of gratitude 
osly, tod not of senility ; for the same hand launched iis 
'iid'gaation against the in&moos Antony, whose power was 
u^r re to be dreaded, and whose revenge pursued him till 
ihi? father of his eouHlry gave his head to the executioner 
Tvithoav a struggle, for he knew that Rome was no longer 
to be saved. If, my friends, you would feel what learn- 
ing, and genius, and Tirtne, should aspire to in a day of 
peril and depravity, when you are tired of the factions cf 
the city, the battles of Cassar, the crimes of the triuBsvi- 
rate, and the splendid court of Augustus, do not go ani 
repose in the easy-chair of Atticus, but refresh your rjr 
tiies and your spirits with the contemplation of Cicero. 



Scenery in the Higldnnds on the River Hudson. — lRTi>r.s. 

I:s the second day of the voyage they came to the Hlg :.- 
liud:. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day. that they 
lloated gently with the tide between these stern moantaias. 
There was that perfect quiet, which prevails over nature 
:n the languor of sununer heat ; the turning of a piank, 
or the accidental faHi^ig of an oar on deck, was ech<K?d 
from the mountain side, and reverberated along the shores : 
and if by chance the <^aptain gave a shout of command, 
there were airy tongues that mocked it from every cliff. 

Dolph gazed about him in mute delight a-**! wonder at 
these scenes of nature's magnificence. Ta the left the 
Dunderberg reared its woody precipices,he;gbt over height, 
forest over forest, away into flie deep suiLJuer sky. To 
the right strutted forth the bold promostcry of Ax-C-i^^^-'s 
Nose, widi a solitary eagle wheeling about H ; wiille ba- 
yond, mountain succeeded to mountaia, nntii tney setia- 
ed to lock their arms blether, and confine this oigtity liv- 
er is their embraces. There was a feeling of qiJet luxury 
In gasing at the braid, green bosoms here and there sc»K;p- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 347 

cd out among tlie precipices; or at woodlands bigh in air, 
nodding over tbe edge of some beetling bluff, and their lo« 
liage all transparent in the yellow sunshine. 

In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of 
brightj snowy clouds peering above the western heights. 
It was succeeded by another, and another, each seeming- 
ly pushing onwards its predecessor, and towering, with 
dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere : and now 
muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling be- 
hind the mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, 
reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now showed a daik 
ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up it. 
The fish hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their 
nests en the high dry trees ; the crows flew clamorously 
to the crevices of the rocks, and all nature seemed con- 
scious of the approaching thunder-gust. 

The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain 
tops ; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower 
parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down 
in broad and scattered drops ; the wind freshened, and curl- 
ed up the waves ; at length it seemed as if the bellying 
clouds were torn open by the mountain tops, and complete 
torrents of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped 
from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the 
rocks, splitting a::d rending the stoutest forest trees. The 
thunder burst in tremendous explosions ; the peals were 
echoed from mountain to mountain ; they crashed upon 
Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the Higij- 
lands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull Hiil 
seemed to bellow back the storm. 

For a time, the scudding rack and mist, and the sheeted 
rain, almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was 
d fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streasvis 
of lightning, which glittered among the rain drops. Never 
had Dolph beheld such an absolute warring of the elements ; 
it seamed as if the storm was tearing and rending its vi'ay 
through this mountain defile, and had brought all the artir 
iery of heaven into action. 

The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, untij 
she came to where the river makes a su(Idcn bend, the onU 



348 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

one in the whole course of its majestic career.* Just as 
they turned the point, a violent flaw of wind came sweep* 
ing down a mountain gully, bending the forest before it, 
and, in a moment, lashing up the river into white froth and 
foam. The captain saw the danger, and cried out to lower 
the sail. Before the order could be obeyed, the flaw struck 
the sloop, and threw her on her beam-ends. Every thing 
now was fright and confusion : the flapping of the sails, 
the whistling and rushing of the wind, the bawling of the 
captain and crew, the shrieking of the passengers, all 
mingled with the rolling and bellowing of the thunder. In 
the midst of the uproar the sloop righted ; at the same time 
the mainsail shifted, the boom came sweeping the quaiter 
deck, and Dolph, who was gazing unguardedly at tlie 
clouds, found himself, in a moment, floundering in the 
liver. 

For once in his life, one of his idle accomplishments wa.i 
of use to him. The many truant hours which he had de- 
voted to sporting in the Hudson had made him an expert 
swimmer ; yet, with all his strength and skill, he founJ 
great difficulty in reaching the shore. His disappearance 
from the deck had not been noticed by the crew, who were 
all occupied with their own danger. The sloop was driven 
along with inconceivable rapidity. She had hard work to 
weather a long promontory on the eastern shore, round 
which the river turned, and which completely shut her 
from Dolph's view. 

It was on a point of the western shore that he landed, 
and, scrambling up the rocks, he threw himself, faint and 
exhausted, at the foot of a tree. By degrees the thunder- 
gust passed over. The clouds rolled away to the east, 
where they lay piled in feathery masses, tinted with the 
last rosy rays of the sun. The distant play of the 
lightning might be still seen about their dark bases, and 
now and then might be heard the faint muttering of the 
thunder. Dolph rose, and sought about to see if any path 
led from the shore, but all was savage and trackless. The 
rocks were piled upon each other ; great trunks of treea 
^y shattered about, as they had been blown down by the 



* TJiis must have been tlie beijd at West Point 



COaiAlON-PLACE BOt K OF PROSE. 349 

Strong winds \>hich draw through these mountains, or had 
fallen through age. The rocks, too, were overhung w.'th 
wild vines and briers, which completely matted themselves 
together, and opposed a barrier to all ingress ; every move- 
ment that he made shook down a shower from the dripping 
foliage. He attempted to scale one of these almost per- 
psudicular he'.ghts ; but, though strong and agile, he found 
it an Hercul»;an undertaking. Often he was supported 
merely by crumbling projections of the rock, and some- 
times he clung to roots and branches of trees, and hung 
almost suspended in the air. The wood-pigeon came cleav- 
ing his whistling flight by him, and the eagle screamed 
from the brow of the impending cliff. As he was thus 
clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold of a shrub 
to aid his ascent, when something rustled among the leaves, 
and he 5aw a snake quivering along like hghtning, almo^i 
fiom under his hand. It coiled itself up immediately, in 
an attitude of defiance, with flattened head, distended jaws, 
and quickly vibrating tongue, that played like a little flame 
about its mouth. Dolph's heart turned faint within him, 
and he had v/ell nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down 
the precipice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for 
an instant ; it was an instinctive movement of defence ; 
and, finding there was no attack, it glided away into a cleft 
of the rock. Dolph's eye followed it with fearful intensi- 
ty ; and he saw at a glance that he was in the vicinity of 
a nest of adders, that lay knotted, and writhing, and hissing 
in the chasm. He hastened with all speed to escape from 
so frightful a neighbourhood. His imagination was full of 
this new horror ; he saw an adder in every curling vine, 
and heard the tail of a rattle-snake in every, dry leaf that 
rustled. 

At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of 
a precipice ; but it was covered by a dense forest. V/hcr- 
ever he coull gain a look out between the trees, he saw 
that the coast rose into heights and cliffs, one rising beyond 
another, until huge mountains overtopped the whole. There 
were no signs of cultivation, nor any smoke curling amongst 
the trees to indicate a human residence. Every thing was 
wild ind solitary. As he was standing on the edge or a 
pjecipce that overlooked a de-^p ravine fringed with trees, 
30 



R50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

his fcet detached a great fragment of rock ; it fell, crash 
ing its way through the tree tops, down into the chasm. A 
loud whoop, or rather a yell, issued from the bottom of ihi. 
glen; the moment after there was the report of a gun; 
and a ball came whistling over his head, cutting the twig? 
and leaves, and burying itself deep in the bark of a chest- 
nut-tree. 

Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a prer 
cipitate retreat ; fearing every moment to hear the eaemv, 
in pursuit. He succeeded, however, in returning unma 
lested to the shore, and determined to penetrate no farthei 
into a country so beset with savage perils. 

He sat himself down, dripping, disconsolately, on a wet 
stone. What was to be done : where was he to shelte;; 
himself? The hour of repose was approaching; the birds 
were seeking their nests, the bat began to flit about in the 
twilight, and the night hawk, soaring high in heaven, seem-, 
ed to be calling out the stars. Night gradually closed in, 
and wrapped every thing in gloom ; and though it was the 
latter part of summer, yet the breeze, stealing along the 
river, and among these drippi..g forests, was chilly and 
j)onetrating, especially to a half-drowaed man. 



Eternity of God. — Greenwood. 

We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the 
vvoi'ld through which we are passing ; decline and change 
and loss, follow decline and change and loss in such rapid 
succession, that we can almost catch the sound of univer- 
sal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily 
around us. " The mountam, falling, cometh lo nought, 
and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters 
wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of 
the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is de- 
stroyed." Conscious of our own instability, we look aocn^. 
for something to rest on, but we look in vain. The heav- 
ens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have a.«. 
end. The iace of the world is changing daily and houriy 
All animated tilings glow old and die. The rocks crura- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 351 

61e, the trees fal^, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. 
The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away 
from us. 

The firmest woi-ks of man, too, are gradually giving 
way ; the ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier 
hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower 
springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these 
perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If 
we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as 
well as the dwellings of former times, they become imme- 
diately associated in our imaginations, and only make the 
feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In 
the spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the ser- 
pent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls, which 
once were crowded with all that taste, and science., and 
labour could procure, which resounded with melody, and 
were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ru- 
ins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer- 
riment, and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, 
have ceased in the desei-ted courts, and the weeds choke 
the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth- 
stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the 
very ashes they contained, are all gone 

While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad 
feeling of insecurity comes over us ; and that feeling is b\ 
no means diminished when we arrive at home If we turn 
to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they 
bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, and in 
a few moments more their countenances are changed, and 
they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear 
they are. The ties which bind us together are never too 
close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. Tears were 
never known to move the king of terrors, neither is it 
enough that we are compelled to surrender one, or two, 
or many of those we love ; for, though the price is so great, 
we buy no favour with it, and our hold on those who re- 
main is as slight as ever. The shadows all elude our grasp, 
and follow one another down the valley. We gain no con- 
fidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our 
contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms, 
which are breathing around us, are as short-lived a.= those 



352 COiOIOX-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE 

were, which have been dust for centuries. The sensatioa 
of vanit)-, uncertainty, and ruin, is equally strong, wheth- 
er we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze en 
what is falhng now, or will fall so soon. 

If every thing which comes under our notice has en 
dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no 
riiore, we carmot say that we receive the least assurance 
by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we 
have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes 
of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what 
were we ? TVe had no knowledge, no consciousness, no 
being ; there was not a single thing in the wide universe 
which knew us. And after the same interval shall have 
elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what 
shall we be ? What they are now. When a few more 
friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few 
more changes mocked us, " we shall be brought to the 
grave, and shall remain in the tomb : the clods of the val- 
ley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall draw after 
us, as there are innumerable before us." All power will have 
forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest will be laid low, and 
every eye will be closed, and every voice hushed, and 
every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we 
have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay be- 
hind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our 
likeness in their bosoms, till they too have arrived at the 
end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of un- 
consciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live 
only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of 
our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, 
perhaps, may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we 
came here, and when we went away ; but even that 'u ill 
soon refuse to bear us record : " time's ejQTacing fingers" 
will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it 
smooth ; and then the stone itself will sink cr crumble, 
and the wanderer of another age will pass, without a sin- 
gle call upon his sympathy, over our unheeded graves. 

Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart, 
which must be the effect of observations like these - Is 
there no substance among all these shadows .' If all whc 
Uve and breathe around us are the creatures of yesterday 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 353 

iiiJ destined to see destruction to-morrow ; if the same 
condition is our own, and the same sentence is written 
against us ; if the sohd forms of inanimate nature and la- 
borious art are fading and falUng ; if we look in vain for 
durability to the very roots of mountains, where shall we 
return, and on what shall we rely ? Can no support be 
o.Tered ? can no source of confidence be named ? Oh yes : 
there is one Being, to whom we can look with a perfect 
conviction of finding that security, which nothing about us 
can give, and which nothing about us can take away To 
this Being we can lift up our souls, and on him we may 
rest them, exclaiming, in the language of the monarch of 
Israel, " Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever 
thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from ever- 
lasting to everlasting thou art God. Of old hast thou laid 
the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work 
of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou shalt endure ; 
yea, all of them shall wax old Jike a garment, as a vesture 
shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed , but 
thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end." 

The eternity of God is a subject of contemplation, which, 
at the same time that it overwhelms us with astonishni(-.nt 
and awe, affords us an immoveable ground of confidence 
in the midst of a changing world. All things which sur- 
round us, all these dying, mouldering inhabitants of time, 
must have had a Creator, for the plain reason, that they 
could not have created themselves. And their Creator 
must have existed from all eternity, for the plain reason, 
that the first cause must necessarily be uncaused. As we 
cannot suppose a beginning without a cause of existence, 
that which is the cause of all existence must be self-exist- 
ent, and could have had no beginning. And, as it had no 
beginning, so also, as it is beyond the reach of all influence 
and control, as it is independent and almighty, it will have 
no end. 

Here then is a support, which will never fail ; here is a 
foundation, which can never be moved — the everlasting 
Creator of countless worlds, " the high and lofty One 
that inhabitelh eternity." What a sublime conception ' 
He inhabits eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration 
pervades and fills throughout his boundless dwelling 
30* 



354 COMHOX-PLA 

3d was created, lie had. e". 
Xk ages will roll i-^-^j, i. 
dBat woesce ~ t - t • r : : 
nite naajesty. . . _■ .1 -. 

ser:_:i_ :: - - ■- . : ^ ■ - 



. — r-TT t: ; 



we wer- 



ili T-r_icli is uow ta- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 355 

men will be entirely ignorant that once we lived. But tha 
same unalterable Being will still preside over the universe, 
through all its changes, and from his remembrance we 
shall never be blotted. We can never be where he is not, 
nor where he sees and loves and upholds us not. He is 
our Father and our God forever. He takes us from earth 
that he may lead us to heaven, that he may refine our na- 
ture from all its principles of corruption, share with us his 
own immc rtality, admit us to his everlasting habitation, and 
crown us with his eternity. 



Philosophy and Morality of Tacitus. — Frisbie. 

It is not for his style, that we principally admire this 
author : his profound views of the human heart, his just 
developement of the principles of action, his delicate touch- 
es of nature, his love of liberty and independence, and, 
above all, the moral sensibility, which mingles, and incor- 
porates itself with all his descriptions, are the qualities, 
which must ever render him a favourite with the friends 
of philosophy and of man. 

Tacitus has been truly called the philosopher of histori- 
ans ; but his philosophy never arrays itself in the robe of 
the schools, or enters into a formal investigation of causes 
and motives. It seems to show itself here and there, in 
the course of his facts, involuntarily, and from its own ful- 
ness, by the manner of narration, by a single word, and 
sometimes by a general observation. Events, in his hands, 
have a soul, which is constantly displaying its secret work- 
ings by the attitude, into which it throws the body, by a 
glance of the eye, or an expression of the face, and now 
and then a sudden utterance of its emotions. It is not the 
prince, the senator, or the plebeian, that he describes ; it 
is always man, and the general principles of human na- 
ture ; and this in their nicer and more evanescent, as well 
as their boldest and most definite expressions. If we were 
not afraid of giving too violent a shock to classical devotees, 
wc should say, that, in the particulars we have mentioned, 
T.'^citns in history is not unhke Miss Edgeworth in fictiort 



-556 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 

There are, indeed, many circumstances, unnecessary to be 
pointed out, in which they differ ; but there is in both the 
same frequent interspersion in the narrative of short re- 
marks, which lay open a principle of human nature, the 
same concise developement of character by discrimination 
and contrast, and the nice selection of some one trait, or 
apparently trifling circumstance, of conduct, as a key to 
the whole ; traits and circumstances, which, though none 
but a philosopher would have pointed out, find their way 
at once to every heart. But the historian has none of the 
playfulness, the humour, and the mind at ease, which are 
seen in the novelist. He knew himself the register of 
facts, and facts, too, in which he took the deepest interest. 
He records events, not as one curious in political relations, 
or revolutions in empires, but as marking the moral charac- 
ter and condition of the age ; a character and condition, 
which he felt were exerting a direct and powerful influ- 
ence upon himself, upon those whom he loved, and with 
whom he lived. 

The moral sensibility of Tacitus is, we think, that par- 
ticular circumstance, by which he so deeply engages his 
reader, and is perhaps distmguished from every other wri- 
ter, in the same department of literature ; and the scenes 
he was to describe peculiarly required this quality. His 
writings comprise a period the most corrupt within the 
annals of man. The reigns of the Neros, and of many 
of their successors, seemed to have brought together the 
opposite vices of extreme barbarism and excessive luxury ; 
the most ferocious cruelty and slavish submission ; volup- 
tuousness the most effeminate, and sensuality worse than 
brutal. Not only all the general charities of life, but tlje 
very ties of nature were annihilated by a selfishness, the 
most exclusively individual. The minions of power butch- 
ered the parent, and the child hurried to thank the empe- 
ror for his goodness. The very fountains of abommations 
seemed to have been broken up, and to have poured over 
the face of society a deluge of pollution and crimes. How 
Important was it, then, for posterity, that the records of 
such an era should be transmitted by one in whose per- 
sonal character there should be a redeeming virtue, who 
i^ould himself feel, and awaken in his readers, that disgust 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 357 

■xnd abhorrence, which such scenes ought to excite ! Such 
?i one was Tacitus. There is in his narrative a seri'.usncss, 
approaching sometimes ahnost to melancholy, and some- 
times bursting forth in expressions of virtuous indignation. 
He appears alwavs to be aware of the general complexion 
of the subjects, of which he is treating ; and, even when 
extraordinary instances of independence and integrity now 
and then present themselves, you perceive, that his mind 
is secretly contrasting them with those vices, with which 
his observation was habitually familiar. Thus, in describ-r 
ing the pure and simple manners of the barbarous tribes 
of the north, you find him constantly bringing forward and 
dwelling upon those virtues, which were most strikingly 
opposed to the enormities of civilized Rome. He could 
not, like his contemporary Juvenal, treat these enormities 
with sneering and sarcasm. To be able to laugh at vice, 
he thought a symptom, that one had been touched at least 
by its pollution ; or, to use his words, and illustrate, at 
once, both of the remarks we have just made ; speaking 
of the temperance and chastity of the Germans, he says, 
" Nemo enim illic ridet vitia, nee corrumpere et corrumpi 
saeculum vocatur." Therefore it is, that, in reading Taci- 
tus, our interest in events is heightened by a general sym- 
pathy with the writer ; and as, in most instances, it is an 
excellence, when we lose the author in his story, so, in 
this, it is no less an excellence, that we have him so fre- 
quently in our minds. It is not, that he obtrudes himself 
upon our notice, but that we involuntarily, though not 
unconsciously, see with his eyes, and feel with his feel- 
ings. 

In estimating, however, the moral sentiment of this his- 
torian, we are not to judge him by the present standard, 
elevated and improA-^ed as it is by Christianity. Tacitua 
undoubtedly felt the influence of great and prevalent er- 
rors. That war with barbarians was at all times just, 
and their territory and their persons the lawful prey of 
whatever nation could seize them, it is well known, had 
been always the practical maxim of the Greeks, as well 
as the Romans. Hence we are not to be surprised, that, 
in various passages of his work, he does not express thai 
tbhorrence of many wars, in which liis countrymen wcrf 



3-58 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

engagci], H'hich we might otherwise have expected from 
him. Tliis apology must especially be borne in mind, ai 
we read the life of Agricola. The invasion of Britain by 
the Romans was as truly a violation of the rights of justirce 
aad humanity, as that of Mexico and Peru by the Span- 
iards ; and their leader little better in principle, than Cor- 
tez and Pizarro. Yet, even here, full as was Tacitus of 
the glory of his father-in-law and of Rome, we have fre- 
quent indications of sensibility to the wrongs of the op- 
pressed and plundered islanders. The well known speech 
of Calgaeus breathes all the author's love of liberty and 
virtue, and exhibits the simple virtues, the generous self- 
devotion, of the Caledonians, in their last struggle for in- 
dependence, in powerful contrast with the vices and am- 
bition of their cruel and rapacious invaders. 

We have mentioned what appears to us the most striking 
characteristics of the author before us. When compared 
with his great predecessor, he is no less excellent, but es- 
senlially diiferent. Livy is only a historian, Tacitus is 
aL-!o a philosopher ; the former gives you images, the latter 
iinpressions. In the narration of events, Livy produces 
his effect by completeness and exact particularity, Tacitus 
by selection and condensation ; the one presents to you a 
panorama — you have the whole scene, with all its compli- 
cated movements and various appearances vividly before 
j'ou ; the other shows you the most prominent and remark- 
able groups, and compensates in depth for what he wants in 
minuteness. Livy hurries you into the midst of the bat- 
tle, and leaves you to be borne along by its tide : Tacitus 
stands with you upon an eminence, where you have more 
tranquillity for distinct observation ; or perhaps, when the 
armies have retired, walks with you over the field, points 
out to you the spot of each most interesting particular, and 
shares with you those solemn and profound emotions^ whiclj 
you have now the composure to feel. 



COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 



The Village Grave- Yard. — Greenwood 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 

Who is he tliat calls the dead ?" — Byron. 

Iw the beginning of the line month of Octobei. I waa 
travelling with a friend in one of our northern states, on a 
tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the 
city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation ; andj 
with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been 
breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and 
the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes be- 
fore the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat 
little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of 
at intervals an hour before, as our road made an unexpect- 
ed turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive 
to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in 
an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, 
and determined to lodge there. 

Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations 
with the landlord, I strolled on toward the meeting-house. 
Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much 
more taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not 
stand, as I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most 
frequented part of the village, blockaded by ^agons and 
horses, with a court-house before it, an engine-house be- 
hind it, a store-house under it, and a tavern on each side ; 
it stood away from all these things, as it ought, and was 
placed on a spot of gently rising ground, a short distance 
from the main road, at the end of a green lane ; and so 
nea' to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that on-e of the 
foremost and largest trees brushed against the pulpit win- 
dow. On the left, and lower down, there was a fertile 
meadow, through which a clear brook wound its course, 
fell over a rock, and then hid itself in the thickest part of 
the grove. A little to the right of the meeting-house was 
the grave-yard. 

I never shun a grave-yard — the thoughtful melancholy 
which it inspires is grateful rather than disagreeable to 
me — it gives me no pain to tread on the green roof of that 
dark mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon-- 



360 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

and I often wander from choice to a place, where there u 
neither solitude nor society — something human is there — 
but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the 
competitions, the pride of humanity, are gone — men are 
there, but their passions are hushed, and their spirits are 
still — malevolence has lost its power of harming — appetite 
is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold — anger has done 
raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is over, the fell 
est animosity is deeply buried, and the most dangerous sins 
are safely confined by the thickly-piled clods of the valley 
— vice is dumb and powerless, and virtue is waiting in 
silence for the trump of the archangel, and the voice ol 
Cod. 

I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There 
were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was 
not regularly planted ; and I thought that it looked better 
than if it had been. The only paths were those, which 
had been worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, 
as they followed love and friendship to the grave ; and this 
too was well, for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel- walk in a 
place like this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle 
knoll, the top of which was covered by a clump of pines. 
Flf'-re my walk ended ; I threw myself down on the slip- 
pery couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath of 
many winters had shaken from the boughs above, leaned 
my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to the feelings 
which the place and the time excited. 

The sun's edge had just touched the hazy outlines of 
the western hills ; it was the signal for the breeze to be 
hushed, and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly 
and at distant intervals, before it died awaJ^ The trees be- 
fore me, as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro, 
and trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, with 
alow, moaning sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice 
of grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of na- 
ture's sympathy over the last abode of mortal man. A 
low, confused hum came from the village ; the brook was 
murmuring in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these 
soothing sounds, I fell asleep. 

But whether my eyes closed or not, I am unable to say, 
for the same scene appeared to be before them, the same 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK S)F PROSE. 361 

trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed 
ts form. I was still contemplating the same trophies of 
the unsparing victor, the same mementos of human evan- 
escence. Some were standing upright ; others were in- 
clined to the ground ; some were sunk so deeply in the 
earth, that their blue tops wei-e just visible above the long 
grass which surrounded them ; and others were spotted or 
covered with the thin yellow moss of the grave-yard. 1 
w^as reading tlie inscriptions on the stones, which Vt^ers 
nearest to me — they recorded the virtues of those who slept 
beneath them, and told the traveller that they hoped for a 
happy rising. Ah ! said I — or I dreamed that I said so — 
this is the testimony of wounded hearts — the fond belief 
of that aifection, which remembers error and evil no long- 
er ; but could the grave give up its dead — could they, who 
have been brought to these cold dark houses, go back again 
into the land of the living, and once more number the 
days which they had spent there, how differently would 
ihey then spend them ! and v/hen they came to die, how 
much firmer would be their hope ! and when they were 
again laid in the ground, how much more faithful would 
be the tales, which these same stones would tel! over them .' 
the epitaph of praise would be well deserved by their vir- 
tues, and the silence of partiality no longer required for 
their sins. 

I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to trem 
ble beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first, 
increased every moment in violence, and it soon heaved 
and struggled fearfully ; while in the short quiet between 
shock and shock, I heard such unearthly sounds, that the 
very blood in my heart felt cold — subterraneous cries and 
groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, and these 
were mingled with a hollow crishing noise, as if the moul- 
dering bones were bursting from their coffins. Suddenly 
all these sounds stopped — the earth on each grave was 
thrown up — and human figures of every age, and clad in 
the garments of death, rose from the ground, and stood by 
the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were crossed 
upon their bosoms — their countenances were deadly pale, 
and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children 
alone were placid and unconscious — but over the features 
31 



362 C03OI0X-PLACE BOOK OF PR)5E. 

of all ihe rest a shadow of unutterable raeaning p^jseil and 
repassed, as tlieir eyes turned wkh terror from the open 
graves, and strained anxioufly upward. Some appear»^d 
to be more calm than others, and when they looked abc^e, 
it was with an expression of more confid^'-ce, though not 
less humility ; but a convulsive shuddering was en the 
frames of all, and on their faces that same shadow of un- 
utterable meaning. While they stood thus, I perceived that 
their bloodless lips began to move, and, though I heard no 
voice, I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word 
would have been — Pardon I 

But this did not continue long — they gradually became 
more fearless — their features acquired the appearance of 
security, and at last of indifference — ^the blood came to 
their lips — the shuddering ceased, £jid the shadow passed 
away. 

And now the scene before me changed. The tombs and 
grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dwell- 
ings — and the grave-yard became a village. Every now 
and then I caught a view of the same faces and forms, 
which I had seen before — ^but other passions were traced 
upon their faces, and their forms were no longer clad m 
the garments of death. The silence of their still prayer 
was succeeded by the sounds of labour, and society, and 
merriment. Sometimes, I could see them meet together 
with inflamed features and angry words, and sometimes 1 
distinguished the outcry of violence, "the oath of passion, 
and the blasphemy of sin. And yet there were a few 
who would often come to the threshold of their dwellings, 
and lift their eyes to heaven, and utter the still prayer of 
par Ion — while others passing by would mock them. 

I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to ex- 
press ray feelings, when I perceived by ray side a beauti- 
ful and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of 
men, and it thus addressed me — " Mortal ! thou hast now 
seen the frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts 
were vain. Even if men should be wakened from their 
cold sleep, and raised from the gnive. the world would still 
be full of enticement and trials ; appetite would solicit and 
passion would burn, as strongly as before — the imperfec 
tions of their nature would accompany their return, anJ 



COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF PROSE. 363 

tne cop-fifjf./cs of life would soon obliterate the reconectioa 
of dealln. It is only when this scene of thinj^s is exchang- 
ed for aiiochei-, that new gifts will bestow new powers, that 
higher objects will banish low desires, that the mind will 
be elevated by celestial converse, the soul be endued with 
immortal vigour, and man be prepared for the course of 
eternity." The angel then turned from me, and with a 
voice, which I hear even now, cried, " Back to your graves, 
ye trail ones, and rise no more, till the elements are melt- 
ed." Immediately a sound swept by me, like the rushing 
wind — the dwellings shrunk back into their original forms, 
and I was left alone in the grave-yard, with nought but the 
silent stones and the whispering trees around me. 

The sun had long been down — a few of the largest stars 
were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their 
lurking places, my cheek was wet with the dew, and I 
was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and re- 
turned to the 'nn. 



Influence of the Habit of Gaming on the Mind and 
Heart. — Nott. 

If an occupation were demanded for the express pur- 
pose of perverting the human intellect, and humbling, and 
degrading, and narrowing, I had almost said, annihilating, 
the soul of man, one more effectual could not be devised, 
than the one the gamester has already devised and prc-oc- 
cupied. T- And the father and mother of a family, who,' in- 
stead of assembling their children in the veading-room, or 
conducting them to the altar, seat them, night after night, 
beside themselves at the gaming-table, do, so far as this 
part of their domestic economy is concerned, contrib\ity not 
only to quench their piety, but also to extinguish their in- 
tellect, and convert them into automatons, living mummies, 
the mere mechanical members of a domestic gambling ma- 
chine, which, though but little soul is necessary, require? a 
number of human hands to work \€]T AwH if, under such 
a blighting culture, they do not degenerate into a state :)f 
mechanical existence, and, gradually losing their reajOQ; 



3-64 COM3IOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

their taste, their fancy, become incapable of corvers.itlon. 
tlie fortunate parents may thank the school-house, the 
church, the library, the society of friends, or soiae other 
and less wretched part of their own defective system, foi 
preventing the consummation of so frightful a result. 

Such are the morbid aud sickly effects of play on the 
human intellect. But intelligence constitutes no inconsid- 
erable part of the glory of man ; a glory wMch, unless 
eclipsed by crime, increases, as intelligence increases. 
'Knowledge is desirable with reference to this world, but 
principally so with reference to the next ; not because 
philosophy, or language, or mathematics, will certainly be 
pursued in heaven, but because the jpursuit of them on 
earth gradually communicates that quickness of perception, 
that acumen, which, as it increases, approximates towards 
the sublime and sudden intuition of celestial intelligences, 
and which cannot fail to render more splendid the com- 
mencement, as well r ^ more splendid the progression, of 
man's interminable career. 

But, while gaming leaves the mind to languish, it pro- 
duces its full effect on the passions and on the heart. 
Here, however, that effect is deleterious. None of the 
sweet and amiable sympathies are at the card-table called 
into action. No throb of ingenuous and philanthropic feel- 
ing is excited by this detestable expedient for killing time, 
as it is called ; and it is rightly so called ; for many a mur- 
dered hoar will witness, at the day of judgment, against 
that fashionable idler, who divides her time between her 
toilet and the card-table, no less than against the profli- 
gate, hackneyed in the ways of sin, and steeped in all the 
filth and debauchery of gamblingiT^ut it is only amidst the 
It 1th and debauchery of gambling, that the full effects of 
card-playing on the passions and on the heart of man are 
ceen.— '^ 

Here that mutual amity that elsewhere subsists, ceases ; 
paternal affection ceases ; even that community of feeling 
that piracy excites, and that binds the very banditti togeth- 
er, has no room to operate ; for, at tiiis inhospitable board, 
every man's interest clashes with every man's interest, and 
every man's hand is literally against every man. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 365 

The love of mastery and the love of money are the 
purest loves, of which the gamester is susceptible. And 
even the love of mastery loses all its nobleness, and de- 
generates into the love of lucre, which ultimately pre- 
dominates, and becomes the ruling passion. 

Avarice is always base ; but the gamester's avarice is 
doubly so. It is avarice unmixed with any ingredient of 
magnanimity or mercy ; avarice, that wears not even the 
guise of public spirit ; that claims not even the meager 
praise of hoarding up its own hard earnings. On the con- 
trary, it is an avarice, that w^holly feeds upon the losses, 
and only delights itself with the miseries, of others ; ava- 
rice, that eyes, with covetous desire, whatever is not indi- 
vidually its own ; that crouches to throw its fangs over 
that booty, by which its comrades are enriched ; avarice, 
that stoops to rob a traveller, that sponges a guest, and 
that would filch the very dust from the pocket of a friend. 

But though avarice predominates, other related passions 
are called into action. The bosom, that was once serene 
and tranquil, becomes habitually perturbed. Envy ran- 
kles ; jealousy corrodes ; anger rages ; and hope and fear 
alternately convulse the system. The mildest disposition 
grows morose ; the sweetest temper becomes fierce and 
fiery, and all the once amiable features of the heart as- 
sume a malignant aspect! Features of the heart, did I 
say ? Pardon my mistake. The finished gambler has none. 
Though his intellect may not be, though his soul may not 
be, his heart is quite annihilated. 

Thus habitual gambling consummates what habitual play 
commences. Sometimes its deadening influence prevails, 
even over female virtue, eclipsing all the loveliness, and 
benumbing all the sensibility of woman. In every circle, 
•where cards form the bond of union, frivolity and heart- 
lessness become alike characteristic of the mother and the 
daughter ; de^^otion ceases ; domestic care is shaken off, 
aud the decrest friends, even before their burial, are con- 
signed to oblivion. 

This is not exaggeration. I appeal to fact. Madame du 

Deftand vas certainly not among the least accomplished fe- 

njalcs, who received and imparted that exquisite tone of 

feeling, that pervaded the most fashionable society of modern 

31* 



B63 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 

Paris. And yet it is recorded of her, in the correspondence 
of the Baron De Grimm, whose veracity will not be ques- 
tioned, that when her old and intimate friend and admirer,. 
M. de Ponte de Vesle, died, this celebrated lady came rather 
late to a great supper in the neighbourhood ; and as it wa* 
known that she made it a point of honour to attend him, 
the catastrophe was generally suspected. She mentioned 
it, however, herself, immediately on entering ; adding, that 
It was lucky he had gone off so early in the evening, as 
she might otherwise have been prevented from appearing. 
She then sat down to table, and made a very hearty and 
merry meal of it. 

Afterwards, when Madame de Chatelet died, Madame 
du DefFand testified her grief for the most intimate of all 
her female acquaintance, by circulating over Paris, the 
very next morning, the most libellous and venomous attack 
on her person, her understanding, and her morals. 

This utter heartlessness, this entire extinction of native 
feeling, was not peculiar to' Madame du Deffand ; it per- 
vaded that accomplished and fashionable circle, in which 
she moved. Hence she herself, in her turn, experienced 
the same kind of sympathy, and her remembrance was 
consigned to the same instantaneous oblivion. During her 
last iMness, three of her dearest friends used to come and 
play Cards, every night, by the side of her couch ; and, as 
she chose to die in the middle of a very interesting game, 
they quietly played it out, and settled their accounts before 
leaving the apartment. 

1 do not say that such are the uniform, but I do say, tliat 
such are the natural and legitimate, effects of gaming or> 
the female character. •^The love of play is a demon, vvhicli 
only takes possession as it kills the heart. But if suth }-: 
the effect of gaming, on the one sex, what musi be its ef 
feet upon the other ? Will nature long survive in boL^ouis in 
vaded, not by gaming only, but also by debaucl".fcry ant'.. 
drunkenness, those sister furies, which hell has let lootrs, 
to cut off our young men from without, and our chi.dreL 
from the streets ? No, it will not. As we have said, the 
finished gambler has no heart. The club, with which he- 
herds, would meet, though all iis members were in mourn- 
ing. They would meet, though it were in an apartment of 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 367 

the charnel-house. Not even the death of kindred can 
affect the gambler. He would play upon his brother's cof- 
fin , he would play upon his father's seuulchre. 



The Preservation of the Church. — Mason. 

The long existence of the Christian Church would be 
pronounced, upon common principles of reasoning, impos- 
sible. She finds in every man a natural and inveterate 
enemy. To encounter and overcome the unanimous hos- 
tility of the world, she boasts no political stratagem, no dis- 
ciplined legions, no outward coercion of any kind. Yet 
her expectation is that she will live forever. To mock 
this hope, and to blot out her memorial from under heaven, 
the most furious efforts of fanaticism, the most ingenious 
arts of statesmen, the concentrated strength of empires, 
have been frequently and perseveringly applied. The blood 
of her sons and her daughters has streamed like water ; 
the smoke of the scaffold and the stake, where they wore 
the crown of martyrdom in the cause of Jesus, has ascend- 
ed in thick volumes to the skies. The tribes of persecu- 
tion have sported over her woes, and erected monuments, 
as they imagined, of her perpetual ruin. But where are 
her tyrants, and where their empires ? The tyran'^s have 
long since gone to their own place ; their names have de- 
scended upon the roll of infamy ; their empires have pass- 
ed, like shadows over the rock ; they have successively dis- 
appeared, and left not a trace behind ! 

But what became of the Church ? She rose from her 
ashes fresh in beauty and might ; celestial glory beamed 
around her ; she dashed down the monumental marble of 
her foes, and they who hated her fled before her She has 
celebrated the funeral of king? md kingdoms that plotted 
her destruction ; and, with the inscriptions of their pride, 
has transmitted to posterity the records of their shame. 
How shall this phenomenon be explained ? We are, at 
the present moment, witnesses of the fact ; but who can 
unfold the mystery ? The book of truth and life has made 
our wonder to cease. " The Lord her God in tup 



368 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

MIDST OF HER IS MIGHTY." His presence is a ftiuntaig 
of health, and his protection a " wall of fire." He haa 
betrothed her, in eternal covenant, to himself. Her living 
Head, in whom she lives, is abovjg, and his quickening 
spirit shall never depart from her^> Armed with divine vir- 
tue, his Gospel, secret, silent, unotiserved, enters the hearts 
of men, and sets up an everlasting kingdom. It eludes all 
the vigilance, and baffles all the power, of the adversary. 
Bars, and bolts, and dungeons are no obstacles to its ap- 
proach : bonds>,and tortures, and death cannot extinguish 
its influence.'l^'Let no man's heart tremble, then, because 
of fear. Let no man despair (in these daj-s of rebuke and 
blasphem.y) of the Christian cause. The ark is launched, 
indeed, upon the floods ; the tempest sweeps along the deep: 
the billows break over her on every side. But Jehovah- 
Jesus has promised to conduct her in safety to the haven 
of peace. She cannot be lost unless the pilot perish. 



Modern Facilities for evangelizing the World. — 
Bkecher. 

The means of extending knowledge, and influencing 
the human mind by argument and moral power, are mul- 
tiplied a thousand fold. The Lancasterian mode of in 
struction renders the instruction of the world c?ieap and 
easy. The improvements of the press have reduced im- 
,-nensely, and will reduce yet more, the price of books, 
bringing not only tracts and Bibles, but even libraries, 
within the reach of every man and every child. But in 
the primitive age. the light of science beamed onh^ on a 
small portion of mankind. The mass of m.ankind were not. 
and could not be, irstructed to read. Every thing was 
transient and fluctuating, because so little was made per- 
manent in books and general knowledge, and so much de- 
pended on the character, the life, and energy, of the living 
teacher. The press, that lever of Archimedes, which no-A 
moves the world, was unknown. 

It was the extinction of science by the invasion (if the 
northern barbarians, which threw back the world ten cer- 



COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PKOSE. 369 

hiries ; and this it effected through the want of permanent 
instruction, and the omnipotent control of opinion whicli is 
exerted by the prees. Could Paul have put in requisition 
the press, as it is now put in requisition by Christianity, anc 
have availed himself of literary societies, and Bible societies, 
and Lancasterian schools to teach the entire population to 
read, and of Bibles, and libraries, and tracts, Mahomet had 
never opened the bottomless pit, and the pope had never 
set his foot upon the neck of kings, nor deluged Europe 
with the blood of the saints. 

Should any be still disposed to insist, that our advan 
tages for evangelizing the world are not to be compared with 
those of the apostolic age, let them reverse the scene, and 
roll back the wheels of time, and obliterate the improve- 
ments of science, and commerce, and arts, which now facil- 
itate the spread of the Gospel. Let them throw into dark- 
ness all the known portions of the earth, which were then 
unknown. Let them throw into distance the propinquity 
of nations ; and exchange their rapid intercourse for cheer- 
less, insulated existence. Let the magnetic power be for- 
gotten, and the timid navigator creep along the coasts of 
the Mediterranean, and tremble and cling to the shore 
when he looks out upon the broad waves of the Atlantic. 
Inspire idolatry with the vigour of meridian manhood, and 
arm in its defence, and against Christianity, all the civili- 
zation, and science, and mental power of the world. Give 
back to the implacable Jew his inveterate unbelief, and his 
vantage-ground, and his disposition to oppose Christianity 
in every place of his dispersion, from Jerusalem to every 
extremity of the Roman empire. Blot out the means of 
extending knowledge and exerting influence upon the hu- 
man mind. Pestroy the Lancasterian system of instruc- 
tion, and throw back the mass of men into a state of un- 
rfading, unreflecting ignorance. Blot out libraries and 
tracts ; abolish Bible, and education, and tract, and mis- 
sionary societies ; and send the nations for knowledge parch- 
ment, and the slow and limited productions of the pen. Lei 
di! ihe improvements in civil government be obliteratedv 
jtnd the world be driven from the happy arts of self-gov 
crnment to the guardianship of dungeons and chains. Let 
hberty of conscience expire, and th^ Church, now emanci' 



S70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

patedj and walking forth in her unsullied loveliness, return 
to the guidance of secular policy, and the perversions and 
corruptions of an unholy priesthood. And now reduce the 
200,000,000 nominal, and the 10,000,000 of real Chris- 
tians, spread ever the earth, to 500 disciples, and tojtwelve 
apostles, assembled, for fear of the Jews, in an upper cham- 
ber, to enjoy the blessings of a secret prayer-meeting. And 
give them the power of miracles, and the gift of tongues, 
and send them out into all the earth to preach the Gospel 
to every creature. 

Is this the apostolic advantage for propagating Christian- 
ity, which throws into discouragement and hopeless imbe- 
cility all our present means of enlightening and disenthral- 
ling the world ? They, comparatively, had nothing to be- 
gin with, and every thing to oppose them ; and yet, in 
three hundred years, the whole civilized, and much of the 
barbarous, world was brought under the dominion of Chris- 
tianity. And shall we, with the advantage of their labours, 
and of our numbers, and a thousand fold increase of oppor- 
tunity, and moral power, stand halting in unbelief, while 
the Lord Jesus is still repeating the injunction. Go ye out 
into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every crea- 
ture ; and repeating the assurance, Lo I am with you alway, 
even to the end of the v/orld ? Shame on our sloth ! Shame 
upon our unbelief! 



Speech* of the Chief Sa-gu-ytj-what-hah, called by 
the white People Red Jacket. 

Frieivd and Brother — It was the will of the GrBf.i 
Spirit that we should meet together this day. He order^^ 
all things, and has given us a fine day for our council, ll'd 
has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused .t 



* Delivered in answer to the offer and request of an American mi.?- 
s-ionary, to teach among the Indians the principles of Christianity 
Some of their speeclies have exhibited more of energy and pathos on 
occasions specially adapted to excite these qualities ; but we hrive eet:s. 
none which better illustrates the peculiar sagacity and eloquence o!'W"5 
Enfortimate people, than tlie one before us. — Ep 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.' 371 

lo shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened 
that we see clearly ; our ears are unstopped, that we have 
been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken 
For all these favours we t'hank the Great Spirit and him 
only. 

Brother — Listen to what we say. There was a time when 
our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats ex- 
tended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great 
Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created 
the buffalo, deer, and other animals for food. He had 
made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for 
clothing. He had scattered them over the earth, and 
taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to 
produce corn for bread. All this he had done for his red 
children, because he loved them. But an evil day came 
upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, and 
landed on this island. Their numbers were small. They 
found friends, and not enemies. They told us they had fled 
from their own countrj^ for fear of wicked men, and had 
come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small 
seat. We took pity on them, and granted their request ; and 
they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat 5 
they gave us poison in return. 

The white people had now found our country. Tidings 
were carried back, and- more came among us. Yet we 
did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They call- 
ed us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a larger 
seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. 
They wanted more land. They wanted our country. Our 
eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars 
tr'>\ place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, 
ar-l many of our people were destroyed. Thej^ also brought 
strong liquor among us. It was strong, ani powerful, and 
has s'ain thousands. 

Brothel — Our seats were once large, and yours were 
email. You have now become a great people, and we have 
scsrcel) a place left to spread our blankets You have got 
oiT country, but are not satisfied ; you want to force your 
e{-;";^ion among us. 

Brother — Continue <^o listen. You say that you are sent 
to instruct us how to worsliip the Great Spirit agreeably t« 



372 coivi:.iON-PLACE book of puose. 

his mind, and, if we do not take hold of the religion whici 
you white people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter 
You say that you are right, and we are lost. How do we 
know this to be true ? We understand that your religion 
is written in a book. If it was intended for us as well as 
you, why has not the Great Spirit given to us, and not only 
to us, but why did he not give to our forefathers, the knowl- 
edge of that book, with the means of understanding i< 
rightly ? We only know what you tell us about it. How 
shall we know when to believe, being so often deceived by 
the white people ? 

Brother — You say there is but one way to worship and 
serve the Great Spirit. If there is but one religion, why 
do you white people differ so much about it ? Why not all 
agreed, as you can all read the book ? 

Brother — We do not understand these things. We are 
told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and 
has been handed down from father to son. We also have 
d religion, which was given to our forefathers, and was 
handed down to their children. We worship in that way. 
It teaches us to be thankful for all the favours we receive ; 
to love each other, and to be united. Y7e never quarrel 
about religion. 

Brother — The Great Spirit has made us all, but he has 
made a great difference between his white and red chil- 
dren. He has given us different complexions and different 
customs. To you he has given the arts. To these he has 
not opened our eyes. We know these things to be true. 
Since he has made so great a difference between us in 
other things, why may we not conclude that he has given 
us a different religion according to our understanding ? The 
Great Spirit does right : he kncws wliat is best for his chil- 
dren. We are satisfied. 

Brother — We do not wish to destroy your religion, or 
take it from you. We only wish to enjoy our own. 

Brother — We are told that you have been preaching to 
the white people in this place. These people are our 
neighbours. We are acquainted with them. We will wait 
a little while, and see what effect your preaching has upon 
them. If we find it does them f^ood, makes them honest 



COMMON-PIACE BOOK OF I'SOSE. 373 

SQQ les3 disposed to cheat Indians, we will then consider 
again of what you have said. 

Brother — You have now heard our answer to yoar talk. 
This IS all we have to say at present. As we are going tc 
part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the 
Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return 
.»'ou safe to your friends. 



Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty* — 
Ames. 

This, sir, is a cause that would be dishonoured and be 
trayed, if I contented myself with appealing only to the 
understanding. It is too cold, and its processes are too 
slow for the occasion. I desire to thank God, that, since he 
has given me an intellect so fallible, he has impressed upon 
me an instinct that is sure. On a question of shame and 
honour, reasoning is sometimes useless, and worse. I feel 
the decision in my pulse : if it throws no light upon the 
brain, it kindles a fire at the heart. 

It is not easy to deny, it is impossible to doubt, that e. 
treaty imposes an obligation on the American nation. It 
would be childish to consider the president and senate 
obliged, and the nation and house free. What is the obli- 
gation ? perfect or imperfect ? If perfect, the debate is 
brought to a conclusion. If imperfect, how large a part 
of our faith is pawned ? Is half our honour put at a risk, 
and is that half too cheap to be redeemed ? How long has 
this hair-splitting subdivision of gool t'aith been discovered ? 
and why has it esca^aed the researches of the writers on 
the law of nations ? Shall we add a new chapter to that 



* Tlie relehrated ?peecli, fnim which this extract is taken, was de- 
.ivr>rt",i i!i the house of representatives, April 28, 1796. in s\ip;)ort of tlie 
folln\viii'_' iii'ition : " Resolved, That it is expedient to pass the laws 
nectrssiiry to carry into effect tho treaty lately concluded between the 
United ^'tates and the king of Great Britain." — After tiie debate, thf 
votes stood, for carrying tiit tre ty into etTect, 51 , against carrying if 
Into effect, 48.— Er>." 
H-4 



874 COMMON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

law ? or insert this doctrine as a supplement to, or, mors 
properly, a repeal of the ten commandments ? 

On every hypothesis, the conclusion is not to be re- 
sisted : we are either to execute this treaty, or break our 
faith. 

To expatiate on the value of public faith, niay pass with 
some men for declamation : to such men I have nothing to 
say. To others I will urge, can any circumstance mark 
upon a people more turpitude and debasement ? Can any 
thing tend more to make men think themselves mean, or 
' degrade to a lower point their estimation of virtue, and their 
standard of action ? It would not merely demoralize man- 
kind ; it tends to break all the ligaments of society, to dis- 
solve that mysterious charm, which attracts individuals to 
the nation, and to inspire in its stead a repulsive sense of 
shame and disgust. 

What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot 
where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we 
tread entitled to this ardent preference, because they are 
greener. No, sir : this is not the character of the virtue, 
and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self- 
love, mingling with all the eiijojments "of life, and twist- 
ing itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is 
thus we jbey the laws of society, because they are the 
laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array 
of force and terror, but the venerable image of our coun- 
try's honour. Every good citizen makes that honour his 
own ; and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sa:red. 
He is willing to risk his life in its defence ; and is conscious, 
that he gains protection while he gives it. For what rights 
of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, when a state re- 
nounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or, 
if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments 
be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dis- 
honoured in his own ? Could he look with affection and 
veneration to such a country as his parent ? The sense of 
having one would die within him ; he vs'ould bhish for 
his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly — for it would 
be a vice. He would be a baa'vhed man in his native 
iand. 



CO?.IxMON-PLACE liOOlt OF PROSE. 375 

I see no exception to the respect that is paid among na- 
tions to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this 
enlightened period when it is violated, there are none when 
it is decried. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion 
of governments. It is observed by barbarians : a whiff 
of tobacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely 
binding force, but sanctity, to treaties. Even in Algiers, 
d truce may be bought for money; but, when ratified, even 
Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul its ob- 
ligation. Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages, 
nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine, 
permit a nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there 
could be a resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the 
victims of justice could live again, collect together and 
form a society, they would, however loath, soon find them- 
selves obliged to make justice, that justice under which 
they fell, the fundamental law of their state. They would 
perceive it was their interest to make others respect, and 
they would, therefore, soon pay some respect themselves 
to the obligations of good faith. 

It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the 
supposition that America should furnish the occasion of thia 
opprobrium. No : let me not even imagine, that a repub- 
lican government, sprung, as our own is, from a people 
enlightened and uncorrupted, a government whose origin 
is right, and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon sol- 
emn debate, make its option to be faithless; can dare to 
act what despots dare not avow, what our own example 
evinces the states of Barbary are unsuspected of. No : 
let me rather make the supposition that Great Britain re- 
fuses to execute the treaty, after we have done every thing 
to carry it into effect. Is there any language of reproach 
pungent enough to express your commentary on the fact ? 
What would you say ? or rather what would you not say ? 
Would you not tell them, wherever an Englishman might 
travel, shame would stick to him ? he would disown his 
country. You would exclaim — " England, proud of your 
wealth, and arrogant in the possession of power, blush for 
these distinctions which hecome the vehicles of your dis- 
honour :" Such a nation might truly say to corruption, 
t]iou art my father ; and to the worm, thou art my rnothp' 



tLe treaty — l5 : .„ r :. f _ , t ■ ; ; . r : . . . r . i . ■ : :e nea- 

tnd in i!^ OHii ; r : : 5 7 : _ . to look 

fix- g^eat d&<: :i "'-.. :7r tt^.t^ l .:-7.:ir3 




luaiK Aevar^ 



|Mi>aiS ajiid BO .;>:"' ;r' :.- ... .' r ._ ' ._ 5 r 1 _ ~ . : _• .' 

Can diey takf 1 ^ ;: : iz Ii i : .e, 

nnderfliese :.-:-:-: >^ ~\- j:: t ":;. -';.sir, it 
will not be pr t ;- — : r : r r? idian a 

lare to diair : i - r :7 :; ir : : "£ O^a 

this theme m" -...i:\::. - .:. _ :t.::^t 7 I :: :.: niJ 

wc^ds fix- (Sif 1. :::.;-:: 7 ■:: T :i;- 7-::: v.:' ■; 1^7 
zsaL I vooLI 5 — > 7 1 : ::'::_::_- 

^tnmee Oal :: }.\: 1 -- :. 7,-::^:r ' t; ;:. : -3 

-:„;: • .- -.r .;:.,:. !■; — ' ' .£e iiara 

" ^ : : - " : - . .. r a etrl 
: : -.. -: :iis yet 

palhtiiroag!i7 : :. ^. v 




COMMOiN-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 37 / 

midnight will glitter with the blaze of youi tlwellings. 
You are a father — the blood of your sons shall fatten youi 
cornfield : you are a mother — the war-whoop shall wake 
the sleep of the cradle. 

On this subject, you need not suspect any deception on 
your feelings. It is a spectacle of horror, which cannot 
\-e overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they 
^ill speak a language, compared v.^ith which all 1 have 
■said, or can say, will be poor and frigid. 

Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject ? 
Who will say that 1 exaggerate the tendencies of our meas- 
ures ? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle 
preaching ? Will any one deny that we are bound' — and 1 
would hope to good purpose — by the most solemn sanctions 
of duty for the vote we give ? Are despots alone to be re- 
proached for unfeeling indifierence to the tears and blood of 
their subjects ? Are republicans unresponsible ? Have the 
principles, on which you ground the reproach upon cabi- 
nets and kings, no practical influence, no binding force ' 
Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to 
decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish 
pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that state- 
house ? I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late 
to ask — Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk 
without guilt and without remorse ? 

By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we 
bind the victims. This day we undertake to render ac- 
count to the widows and orphans whom our decision will 
make, to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake, to 
our country, and, I do not deem it too serious to say, to 
conscience and to God. We are answerable ; and if duty 
be any thing more than a word of imposture, if conscience 
be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as 
v/retched as our country. 

There is no mistake in this case, there can be none • 
experience has already been the prophet of events, and the 
cries of our future victims have already reached us. The 
western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sac- 
rifice. The voice of humanity issues from the shade of 
the wilderness : it exclaims that, while one hand is held 
up to reject this treaty, -the other grasps a tomahawk. It 



878 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Bummons our imagination to the scenes that will open. I 
13 no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events 
BO near are already begun, i can fancy that I listen to the 
yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture ; al- 
ready they seem to sigh in the western w^ind ; already they 
mingle with e ery echo from the mountains. 

1 rose to speak under impressions that 1 would have re- 
sisted if I could. Those who see me will believe, that 
the reduced state of my health has unfitted me, almost 
equally, for much exertion of body or mind. Unprepared 
for debate by careful reflection in my retirement, or by 
long attention here, 1 thought the resolution I had taken 
to sit silent v/as imposed by necessity, and would cost me 
no effort to maintain. With a mind thus vacant of ideas, 
and sinking, as I really am, under a sense of weakness, i 
imagined the very desire of speaking was extinguished by 
the persuasion that I had nothing to say. Yet wiien 1 
come to the moment of deciding the vote, I start back with 
dread from the edge of the pit into which we are plunging. 
In my view, even the minutes I have spent in expostu- 
lation have their value, because they protract the crisis, 
and the short period in which alone we may resolve to es 
cape it. 

I have thus been led by my feelings to speak more at 
length than I had intended. Yet I have, perhaps, as little 
personal interest in the event as any one here. There is. 
I believe, no member, who will not think his chance to be 
a witness of the consequences greater than mine. If, how- 
ever, the vote should pass to reject, and a spirit should rise, 
as it will with the public disorders, to make " confusion 
worse confounded," even I, slender and almost broken as 
my hold upon life is, may outlive the government and 
constitution of my country. 



Appeal in Favour of the Union. — Madisojv. 

I SUBMIT to you, my fellow-citizens, lliese considera 
tions, in lull confidence that the good sense, which has so 
often marked your decisions, will allow them their dua 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 379 

weight iiPid effect ; and that you will never suffer difficul- 
ties, however formidable in appearance, or however fash- 
ionable the error on which they may be founded, to drive 
you into the gloomy and perilous scenes, into which the 
advocates for disunion would conduct you. Hearken not 
to the unnatural voice, which tells you that the people of 
America, knit together, as they are, by so many cords of 
affection, can no longer live together as members of the 
same family ; can no longer continue the mutual guar- 
dians of their mutual happiness ; can no longer be fel- 
low-citizens of one great, respectable and flourishing em- 
pire. Hearken not to the voice, which petulantly tells 
you, that the form of government recommended for your 
adoption is a novelty in the political world ; that it has 
never yet had a place in the theories of the wildest pro- 
jectors ; that it rashly attempts what it is impossible to ac- 
complish. No, my countrymen ; shut your ears against 
this unhallowed language. Shut your hearts against the 
poison which it conveys ; the kindred blood, which flows 
in the veins of American citizens, the mingled blood, which 
they have shed in defence of their sacred rights, consecrate 
their union, and excite horror at the idea of their becom- 
ing aliens, rivals, enemies. And if novelties are to. bo 
shunned, believe me, the most alarming of all novelties, 
tiie most wild of all projects, the most rash of all attempts, 
h that of rending us in pieces, in order to preserve our lib- 
erties and promote our happiness. But why is ihe exper- 
iment of an extended republic to be rejected, merely be- 
cause it may comprise what is new ? Is it not the glory 
of the people of America, that, whilst they have paid a de- 
cent regard to the opinions of former times and other na- 
tions, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, 
for custom, or for names, to overrule the suggestions of 
their own good sense, the knov/ledge of their own situ- 
ation, and the lessons of their own experience ? To this 
mar "y spirit, posterity will be indebted for the pcs^ession, 
and the wcrid for the example, of the numerous ?,. novations 
disj.Iaycd on liie American theatre/ ij favour of private 
righ(3 and public lia,>piness. Had no important step beea 
ta!:cn Ly the leaders of the revohition, for which a prect; 
de!;t could not be discovered: hadno<iovcrnme!it been est-ilv. 



380 co:M:.iox-rLACE book of pr )se. 

lished, of which an exact model did not present itself, — tha 
people of the United States might, at this moment, ha /e 
been numbered among the melancholy victims of misguided 
councils ; must at best have been labouring under the 
weight of some of those forms, which have crush&d the 
liberties of the rest of mankind. Happily for America, 
happily, we trust, for the whole human race, they pursued 
a new and more noble course. They accomplished a rev- 
olution, which has no parallel in the annals of human so- 
ciety. They reared fabrics of government, which have 
no model on the face of the globe. They formed the de- 
sign of a great confederacy, v/hich it is incumbent on their 
successors to improve and perpetuate. If their works be- 
tray imperfections, we wonder at the fewness of them. 
If they erred most in the structure of the union, this was 
the work most difficult to be executed ; this is the work 
which has been new-modelled by the act of your conven- 
tion, and it is that act, on which you are now to deliberate 
and decide. 



Grand electrical Experiment of Dr. Franklin. — 
Stitbkr. 

\:s the year 1749, he first suggested his idea of explain- 
ing the phenomena of thunder-gusts, and of the aurora 
borealis, upon electrical principles. He points out many 
particulars in which lightning and electricity' agree ; and 
he adduces m.any facts, and reasonings from facts, in sup- 
port of his positions. In the same year he conceived tlic 
astonisliingly bold and grand idea of ascertaining the truth 
of his doctrine, by actually drawing down the lightning, 
by means of sharp-pointed iron rods raised into the region 
of the clouds. Even in this uncertain state, his passion to 
be useful to mankind displays itself in a powerful manner. 
Admitting the identity of electricity and lightning, an-d 
knowing the power of points in repelling bodies charged 
with electricity, and in conducting their fire silently and 
i-Tnperceptibly, he suggested the idea of securing houses, 
rMps, &c. from being damaged by lightning, by ererfng 



COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF niOSE. 381 

pointed rods, that should rise son\e feet above the most ele- 
vated part, and descend so;ae feet into the ground or the wa- 
ter. The effect of these, he concluded, would be either to 
prevent a stroke by repelUng the cloud beyond the striking 
uistance, or by drawing off the electrical fire which it con- 
tained ; or, if they could not effect this, they would at least 
conduct the electric matter to the earth, without any injury 
to the building. 

It was not until the summer of 1752, that he was ena- 
bled to complete his grand and unparalleled discovery by 
experiment. The plan which he had originally proposed, 
was, to erect on some high tower, or other elevated place, 
a sentry box, from which should rise a pointed iron rod, 
insulated by being fixed in a cake of resin Electrified 
cloudSj passing over this, would, he conceived, impart to it 
a portion of their electricity, which would be rendered ev- 
ident to the senses by sparks being emitted, when a key, 
the knuckle, or other conductor, was presented to it. Phil- 
adelphia, at this time, afforded no opportunity of trying an 
experiment of this kind. While Franklin was waiting for 
the erection of a spire, it occurred to him that he might 
have more ready access to the region of clouds by means 
of a coiTiinon kite. He prepared one by fastening two cross 
sticks to a silk handkerchief, which would not suffer so 
much fi'om the rain as paper. To the upright stick was 
affixed an iron point. The string was, as usual, of hemp, 
except the lower end, which was silk. Where the hemp- 
en string terminated, a key was fastened. With tLis ap- 
paratus, on the appearance of a thunder-gust approacVing, 
he went out into the commons, accompanied by his son, to 
whom alone he communicated his intentions, well knowing 
the ridicule, which, too generally for the interest of sci- 
ence, awaits unsuccessful experiments in philosoph5^ Ho 
placed himself under a shade, to avoid the rain — his kite 
was raised — a thunder-cloud passed over it — no sign of 
electricity appeared. He almost despaired of success, 
when suddenly he observed ihe loose fibres of his string 
to move towards an erect position. He now presented hi3 
knuckle to the key, and received a strong spark. How 
exquisite must his sensations have been at this moment! 
On this experiment depended the fat of his *heory. I! 



332 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

he succeeded, his name would rank high among those who 
had improved science ; if he failed, he must inevitably be 
subjected to the derision of mankind, or, what is worse, 
their pity, as a well-meaning man, but a weak, silly pro- 
jector. The anxiety with which he looked for the result 
of his experiment may be easily conceived. Doubts and 
despair had begun to prevail, when the fact was ascertain- 
ed in so clear a manner, that even the most incredulous 
could no longer withhold their assent. Repeated sparks 
were drawn from the key, a phial was charged, a shock 
given, and all the experiments made which are usually per- 
formed with electricity. 



By these experiments Franklin's theory was established 
in the most convincing manner. When the truth of it 
could no longer be doubted, envy and vanity endeavoured 
to detract from its merit. That an American, an inhabitant 
of the obscure city of Philadelphia, the name of which was 
hardly known, should be able to make discoveries, and to 
frame theories, which had escaped the notice of the enlight- 
ened philosophers of Europe, was too mortifying to be admit- 
ted. He must certainly have taken the idea from some 
one else. An American, a being of an inferior order, make 
discoveries ! — Impossible. It was said, that the Abbe Nol- 
let, 1748, had suggested the idea of the similarity of light- 
ning and electricity in his Le':ons de Physique. It is true 
that the abbo mentions the idea, but he throws it out as a 
bare conjecture, and proposes no mode of ascertaining the 
truth of it He himself acknowledges, that Franklin first 
entertained the bold thought of bringing lightning from the 
heavens, by means of pointed rods tixed in the air. The 
similarity of lightning and electricity is so. strong, that we 
need not be surprised at notice being taken of it, as soon 
as electrical phenomena became familiar. We find it men- 
.ioned by Dr.. Wall and Mr. Grey, while the science was 
in its infanc5% But the honour of forming a regular theo- 
ry of thunder-gusts, of suggesting a mode of determining 
the truth of it by experiments, and of putting these ex- 
periments in practice, and thus establishing the theory upoc 
a firm and solid basis, is incontc stably due to Franklin 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. S53 



Kxiricalion of a Frigate from the Shoah. — 
Cooper. 

The extraordinary activity of Griffith, which comii!0« 
■.-iic^ted itself with promptitude to the whole crew, was 
{;ro'Juced by a sudden alteration in the weather. In place 
.'f the well-defined streak along the horizon, that has been 
I ready described, an immense body of misty light appear- 
s-' to be moving in, with rapidity, from the ocean, while a 
li<5tinct but distant roaring announced the sure approach 
;f he tempest, that had so long troubled the v/aters. Even 
G" fl&th, while thundering his orders through the trumpet, 
and urging the men, by his cries, to expedition, would 
P'ause, for instants, to cast anxious glances in the direction 
of the coming storm, and the faces of the sailors who lay 
on the yards were turned, instinctively, towards the same 
quarter of the heavens, while they knotted the reef-points, 
or passed the gaskets, that were to confine the unruly can- 
vass to the prescribed limits. 

The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where 
voice rose above voice, and cry echoed cry, in quick suc- 
cession, appeared as if he held no interest in the important 
stake. With his eyes steadily fixed on the approaching 
mist, and his arms folded together, in composure, he stood 
calmly awaiting the result. 

The ship had fallen off, with her broadside to the sea, 
and was become unmanageable, and the sails were already 
brought into the folds necessary to her security, when the 
quick and heavy fluttering of canvass was thrown across 
the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that 
such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to 
appal the seaman. 

*' The schooner has it !" cried Griffith ; " Barnstable 
has held on, like himself, to the last moment — God send 
that the squall leave him cloth enough to keep him from 
the sliore !" 

"^His sails are easily handled," the commander observ- 
ed, " and she must be over the principal danger. We 
are falling off before it, Mr. Gray ; shall we try a cast of 
the lead '" 



S84 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

The pilot turoed from his co:it?rcr]7.^ve posfire, an»! 
moved slo^-ly across the deck, before he retLTrned any re- 
ply to this question — like a man v/ho not crly felt that 
every thing depended on himself, but that h'> v/ao t;qual to 
the emergency. 

" 'Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'tw':i Id be 
certain destruction to be taken aback, and it i.' diffi- 
cult to say, within several points, how the wind nay 
strike us." 

" 'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith ; " for here n 
comes, and in right earnest!" 

The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, he .; i 
at hand, and the words were hardly passed the lips of Le 
young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heav y 
to one side, and then, as she began to move through the 
water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if 
saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antago- 
nist with which she was about to contend. Not another 
minute elapsed, before the ship was throwing the waters 
aside, with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, 
was brought as near to the desired course, as the direction 
of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the 
yards graduallj- subsided, and the men slowly descended 
to the d9ck, all straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in 
which they were enveloped, and some shaking their heads 
in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions 
they really entertained. All on board anxiously waitetl 
for the fury of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant 
or inexperienced in that gallant frigate, as not to know, 
that they, as yet, only felt the infant efforts of the wind. 
Each moment, however, it increased in power, though so 
gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners be- 
gan to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not 
to be realized. During this short interval of uncertainty, 
HO other sounds were heard than the whistling of the 
breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass of rigging 
that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray, 
that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a 
cataract. 

"It blow- "resh," cried Griffith, who was the first to 
speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety ; " but it is na 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 385 

mere than a cap-full of wind, after all. Give us elbow- 
room, and the right canvass, Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the 
ship like a gentleman's yacht, in this breeze." 

" Will she stay, think ye, under this sail ?" said the low 
voice of the stranger. 

" She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood 
and iron," returned the lieutenant ; " but the vessel don't 
float the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails 
alone, against a heavy sea. Help her with the courses, pi- 
k)t, and you'll see her come round like a dancing-master." 

" Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned 
ihe man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side 
of Grifl&th to the weather gang-way of the vessel, where 
he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship, with an air 
of singular coolness and abstraction. 

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the 
frigate, when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist 
of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint 
light, that was a good deal aided by the glittering foam of 
the waters, which now broke in white curls around the 
vessel, in every direction. The land could be faintly dis- 
cerned, rising, like a heavy bank of black fog, above the 
margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from 
the heavens, by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last 
rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place, by the sea- 
men, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded 
the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that their 
ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; 
and, as^he was approaching, with such velocity, the quar- 
ter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were known 
to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most exact 
discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and 
rren within their own bosoms. At length the voice of 
Captain Munson was heard, calling to the pilot. 

" Shall 1 send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," he 
?aid, " and try our water ?" 



" Tack your ship, sir, tack your ship ; I would see how 
she works, before we reach the point, where she must be- 
have well, or we perish." 

33 



gS6 _ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

Griffilli gazed after him in wonder, wh.le the pilot slow- 
ly paced the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his 
trance, gave forth the cheering order that called each man 
to his station, to perform the desired evolution. The con- 
fident assurances which the young otScer had given to the 
pilot, respecting the qualities of his vessel, and his own 
ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result. 
The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship bore 
up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through 
the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked 
boldly into the very eye of tne wind, and then, yielding 
gracefully to its power, she fell oiF on the other tack, with 
her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had 
so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The 
heavy yards swung rovnd, as if they had been vanes to 
indicate the currents of the air, and in a few moments the 
^rigate again moved, with stately progress, through the 
»vater, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side 
af the bay, but advancing towards those that otiered equal 
danger on the other. 

During this time, the sea was becoming more agitated, 
and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. 
The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the ves- 
sel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed the compli 
Gated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An 
endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy 
billows, and the ver}^ air was glittering with the light that 
was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded, each 
moment, more and more before the storm, and.m less than 
half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor, 
she was driven along, with tremendous fury, by the full 
power of a gale of wind. Still, the hardy and experienced 
mariners, who directed her movements, held her to the 
'ourse that was necessary to their preservation, and stili 
Griffith gave foith, when directed bj'^ their unknov/n pilot, 
those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where 
safety was, alone, to be found. 

So far, the performance of his duty appeared easj- to the 
stranger, and he gave the required directions in those stilJ, 
calm tones, that formed so remarkable a contrast to the 
responsibility of his situation. But when the land was be- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 387 

coming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the agitated 
sea was only to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, 
he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempesti 
with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apa- 
thy, and rouse himself to the occasion. 

" Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," 
he cried ; " here we get the true tide and the real danger. 
Place the best quarter-master of your ship in those chains, 
and let an officer stand by him, and see that he gives us 
the right v/ater." 

" I will take that office on myself," said the captain ; 
** pass a light into the weather main-chains." 

"Stand by your braces !" exclaimed the pilot, with start- 
ling quickness. " Heave away that lead !" 

These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, 
and every officer and man stood in fearful silence, at hia 
assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. E^en the 
quarter-master at the cun gave out his orders to the men 
at the wheel in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as if 
anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel. 

While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the 
piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called, " By the mark 
seven!" rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks, ani 
appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast, like 
the warnicgs of some water spirit. 

" 'Tis well," returned the pilot, calmly ; " try it 
again." 

The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " and 
a half-five !" 

" She shoals ! she shoals !" exclaimed Griffith ; " keep 
her a good full." 

" Ay ! you must hold the vessel in command, now," 
said the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling 
m critical moments, because they seem to denote most 
preparation and care. 

The third call of " By the deep four !" was followed by 
a prompt direction from the stfanger to tack. 

Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in 
L'-suing the necessary orders to execute this manceTivie. 

The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into 
?.]acli she had been forced by the tempest, and the saiij 



388 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

were shaking violently, as if to release themselves fion 
their confinement, while the ship stemmed the billows, 
when the well-known voice of the sailing-master was heard 
shouting from ths forecastle— 

" Breakers ! breakers, dead ahead '" 

This appaUing sound seemed yet to he lingering about 
the ship, when a second voice cried — 

" Breakers on our lee-bow !" 

" We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr. Gray," said 
the commander. " She loses her way ; perhaps an anchor 
might hold her." 

" Clear away that best-bcivver !" shouted Griffith through 
his trumpet. 

" Hold on !" cried the pilot, in a voice that reached 
the very hearts of all who heard him ; " hold on every 
thing." 

The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger, 
who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once 
demanded — 

" Who is it that dares to countermand my orders 1 — is it 
not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you must 
interfere to keep her there ! If another word — " 

" Peace, Mr. Griffith/' interrupted the captain, bending 
from the rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind, 
and adding a look of wildness to the haggard care that he 
exhibited by the light of his lantern ; " yield the trumpet 
to Mr. Gray ; he alone can save us." 

Griffith threw his speaking trumpet on the deck, and, as 
he walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feel- 
ing— 

" Then all is lost, indeed, and, among the rest, the foolish 
hopes with which I visited this coast." 

There was, however, no time for reply ; the ship had 
been rapidly running into the wind, and, as the efforts of 
the crew were paralyzed by the contradictory orders they 
had heard, she gradually lost her way, and, in a few sec 
onds, all her sails were taken aback. 

Before the crew understood their situation, the pilot had 
applied the trumpet to his mouth, and, in a voice that rose 
above the tempest, he thundered forth his orders. Each 
command wis given di? inctly, and with a precision tlia-t 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 389 

Bliowed him to be master of bis profession. The helm was 
kept fast, the head yards swung up heavily against the wind, 
and the vessel-was soon whirling round on her heel, with 
a retrograde movement. 

Griffith was too much of a seaman, not to perceive that 
the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the 
only method that promised to extricate the vessel from her 
situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud ; but he 
was also generous. Forgetting his resentment and his 
mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and, by 
his presence and example, added certainty to the experi- 
ment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale, and bowed 
her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring 
its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat vio- 
lently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from 
her usual manner of moving. 

The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady 
and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear; 
and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding, 
in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of their 
childhood. When the ship had fallen off dead before the 
wind, her head sails were shaken, her after yards trimmed, 
and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the 
danger that had threatened, as well to leeward as to wind- 
ward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her government, 
threw her bows up gracefully towards the wind again, and, 
as her sails were trimmed, moved out from amongst the 
dangerous shoals, in which she had been embayed, as stead- 
ily and swiftly as she had approached them. 

A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the 
iccomplishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no 
time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger 
sti.l held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid 
the bowlings of the blast, whenever prudence or skill di- 
rected any change in the management of the ship. For 
an hour longer, there was a fearful struggle for their pres- 
ervation, the channel becoming, at each step, more com- 
p„cated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners, 
on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quicK 
eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness, with a keen- 
ness of vision that exceeded human power. It was appa- 
33* 



S90 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

rent to all in the vessel, that they were under the guidance 
of one who understood the na\ igation thoroughly, and their 
exertions kept pace with their reviving confidence. Again 
and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on 
shoals, where the sea was covered with foam, and where 
destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain, 
when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning 
them of the danger, and inciting them to their duty. 
The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government, and 
during those anxious moments, w^hen she was dashing the 
waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous yards, 
each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that had 
obtained a command over the crew, that can only be ac- 
quired, under such circumstances, by great steadiness and 
consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the in- 
action of changing h'er course, in one of those critical tacks 
that she had made so often, when tlie pilot, for the first 
time, addressed the commander of the frigate, who still 
continued to superintend the all-important duty of the 
leadsman. 

" Now is the pinch," he said; " and if the ship behaves 
well, we are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done 
will be useless." 

The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains 
at this portentous notice, and, calling to his first lieuten- 
ant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warn- 
ing. 

'•' See you yon light on the southern headland ?" re- 
turned the pilot ; " you may know it from the star near 
it by its sinking, at times, in the ocean. Now observe 
the hummoc, a little north of it, looking like a shadow in 
the horizon — 'tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light 
open from the hill, we shall do well — but if not, we surely 
go to pieces." 

" Let us tack again !" exclaimed the lieutenant. 

The pilot shook his head, as he replied — 

" There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done to- 
night. We have barely room to pass out of the shoals on 
this course, and if we can weather the ' Devil's-Grip,' we 
clear their outermost point — but if not, as I said before) 
there is but an alternative." 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 391 

" !<* we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed 
Griffith, " we should have done well." 

" Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," re- 
turned the pilot calmly. " Gentlemen, we must be prompt; 
we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That 
topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want 
both jib and mainsail." 

" 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvass in such a tem- 
pest !" observed the doultful captain. 

'• It must be done," returned the collected stranger ; 
" v^e perish, without it — see ! the light already touches 
the edge of the hummoc ; the sea casts us to leeward !" 

*' It shall be done !" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet 
from the hand of the pilot. 

The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as 
soon as issued, and, every thing being ready, the enormous 
folds of the mainsail were trusted, loose, to the blast. There 
was an instant when the result was doubtful ; the tremen- 
dous threshing of the heavy sails, seeming to bid defiance 
to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre ; but art and 
strength prevailed, and gradually the canvass was distend- 
ed, and, bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual 
place, by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yield- 
ed to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it, 
like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the 
measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, 
that seemed to burst from his inmost soul. 

" She feels it ! she springs her luff! observe," he said, 
" the light opens from the hummoc already ; if she will 
only bear her canvass, we shall go clear !" 

A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his excla- 
mation, and something resembling a white cloud was seen 
drifting before the wind from the head of the ship, till it 
was driven info the gloom far to leeward. 

" 'Tis the jib, blown. from the bolt-ropes," said the com- 
mander of the frigate. " This is no time- to spread light 
duck — but the mainsail may stand it yet." 

"Tbf sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieu- 
tenant; " but that mast springs like a piece of steel." 

" Silence all!" cried the pilot. " Now, gentlemen, we 
shall soon know our fate. Let her lufF — luff you can •" 



392 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

This warning effectually closed all discourse, and ihe 
hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in 
the power of man to ensure their safety, stood in breath- 
less anxiety, awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead 
of them, the whole ocean was white with foam, and the 
waves, instead of rolling on, in regular succession, appear- 
ed to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak 
of dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, could 
be discerned running into this chaos of water ; but it was 
soon lost to the eye, amid the confusion of the disturbed 
element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more 
heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to 
keep her sails touching. The pilot silently proceeded to 
the wheel, and, with his own hands, he undertook the 
steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate 
to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean, and she enter- 
ed the channel am^ong the breakers, with the silence of a 
desperate calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled 
away to leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering 
their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the danger; bet 
breaker after breaker would still rise before them, follow- 
ing each other into the general mass, to check their exul- 
tation. Occasionally, the fluttering of the sails would be 
heard ; and, when the looks of the startled seamen were 
turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its 
spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water to the 
canvass. At length the ship reached a point, where she 
Appeared to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruc- 
tion, when, suddenly, her course was changed, and her 
head receded rapidly from the wind. At the same instant, 
the voice of the pilot was heard, shouting — 
" Square away the yards ! — in mainsail !" 
A general burst from the crew echoed, " Square away 
Trie yards !" and, quick as thought, the frigate was seen 
c;]!;!ing along the channel, before the wind. The eye had 
b.ardiy time to dwell on the foam, which seemed like clouds 
Jriving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel is- 
sued from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy waves 
if the open sea-. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 393 



Lafayette's first Visit to America. — Ticknor 

When- only between sixteen and seventeen, Lafayette 
was married to the daughter of the Duke d'Ayen, son of 
the Duke de Noailles, and grandson to the great and good 
Chancellor d'iVguesseau ; and thus his condition in life 
seemed to be assured to him among the most splendid and 
powerful in the empire. His fortune, which had been 
accumulating during a long minority, was vast ; his rank 
was with the first in Europe ; his connexions brought him 
ihe support of the chief persons in France ; and his indi- 
vidual character — the warm, open and sincere manners, 
which have distinguished him ever since, and given him 
such singular control over the minds of men — made him 
powerful in the confidence of society wherever he v/ont. 
It seemed, indeed, as if life had nothing further to offer 
him, than he could surely obtain by walking in the path 
that was so bright before him. 

It was at this period, hov/ever, that his thoughts and feel- 
ings were first turned towards these thirteen colonies, then 
in the darkest and most doubtful passage of their struggle 
for independence. He made himself acquainted with our 
agents at Paris, and learned from them the state of our af- 
fairs. Nothing could be less tempting to him, whether he 
sought military reputation, or military instruction ; for our 
army, at that moment retreating through New Jersey, and 
leaving its traces of blood from the naked and torn feet of 
the soldiery, as it hastened onward, was in a state too hum- 
ble to offer either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entire- 
Jy gone, so that the commissioners, (as they were called, 
without having any commission,) to whom Lafayette still 
persisted in offering his services, were obliged, at last, to 
acknowledge, that they could not even give him decent 
means for his conveyance. " Then," said he, " I shall 
purchase and fit out a vessel for myself." He did so. The 
vessel was prepared at Bordeaux, and sent round to one 
of the nearest ports in Spain, that it might be beyond the 
reach of the French government. In order more elTectu- 
ally to conceal his purposes, he made, just before his em- 
jaikation, a visit of a few weeks in England, (the only 



594 COMMON-rL iCE BOOK OF FROSE, 

time he was ever there.) and was much sought in English 
society. On his return to France, he did not stop at all 
in the capital, even to see his own family, hut hastened, 
with all speed and secrec\", to make good ids escape froio 
the country. It was not until he was thus on Ins way 
to embark, that his romantic undertaking hegan to hi 
known. 

The effect produced in the capital and at court hy it« 
publication wa= greater than we should now, perhaps, im- 
agine. Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, required 
tlie French miiistry to despatch an order for his arrest, nol 
only to Bordeaux, but to the French commanders on the 
West India station ; a requisition witli which the ministrj 
readily complied, for thej- were at that time anxious to pre- 
serve a good understanding with England, and were seri- 
ously angry with a young man who had thus put in jeop- 
ardy the relations of the two countries. In fact, at Peis- 
sage, on the very borders of France and Spain, a lettre dt 
cachet overtook him, and he was arrested and carried back 
to Bordeaux. There, of course, his enterp-nse was near 
being finally stopped ; but, watching his opportunity, and 
assisted by one or two friends, he disguised liimself as a 
courier, with his face blacked and false hair, and rode on, 
ordering post horses for a carriage, which he had caused 
to follow him at a suitable distance, for this very purpose, 
and thus fairly passed the frontiers of the two kingdoms, 
only threfe or four hours before his pursuers reached them, 
lie soon arrived at the port where his vessel was waiting 
for him. His fami^ ;, however, still followed him with so- 
licitations to return^, which he never received : and the so- 
ciety of the court and capital, according to Madame du 
Deffand's account of it, was in no common state of excite- 
ment on the occasion. Something of the same sort hap- 
pened in London. " "We talk chiefly," says Gibbon, in a 
letter dated April 12th, 1777, '•' of the Marquis de Lafa- 
yette, who was here a few weeks ago. He is about twenty, 
with a hundred and thirty thousand livres a year ; the 
nephew of Noailles, who is ambassador here. He has 
bought the Puke of Kingston's yacht, [a mistake J and ia 
gone to join he Air ?ricans. The court appear to be anfcry 
»rith him." 



^nJM.MON-PLACE BOOK CF PROSE. 395 

Immediately on arriving the secor d time at Passage, the 
wind being fair, he embarked. The usual course, for 
French vessels attempting to trade with our colouies at that 
period, was, to sail for the West indies, and then, coming 
up along our coast, enter where they could. But this 
course would have exposed Lafayette to the naval com- 
manders of his own nation, and he had almost as much rea- 
son to dread them as to dread British cruisers. When, 
therefore, they were outside of the Canary Islands, La- 
fayette required his captain to lay their course directly for 
the United States. The captain refused, alleging that, if 
they should be taken by a British force, and carried into 
Halifax, the French government would never reclaim 
them, and they could hope for nothing but a slow death in 
a dungeon or a prison-ship. This was true, but Lafa- 
yette knew it before he made the requisition. He there- 
fore insisted, until the captain refused in the most positive 
manner. Lafayette then told him that the ship was his 
own private property, that he had made his own arrange- 
ments concerning it, and that if he, the captain, would 
not sail directly for the United States, he should be put in 
irons, and his command given to the next officer. The 
captain, of course, submitted, and Lafayette gave liim a 
bond for forty thousand francs, in case of any acciden' 
They therefore now made sail directly for the southern por- 
tion of the United States, and arrived unmolested at Charles- 
ton, South Carolina, on the 25th of April, 1777. 

The sensation produced by Kis appearance in this coun- 
try was, of course, much greater than that produced in 
Europe by his departure. It still stands forth as one of the 
most prominent and important circumstances in our revo- 
lutionary contest ; and, as has often been said by one who 
bore no small part in its trials and success, none but those, 
who were then alive, can believe what an impulse it gave 
to the hopes of a population almc^-t disheartened by a iong 
series of disasters. And well it m-ight ; for it taught us, 
that, in the tlrst rank of the first nobility in Europe, men 
could still be found, who not only took an interest in our 
struggle, but were willing to share our sufferings; that 
our obscure and almost desperate contest for freedom, in a 
remote quarter of t>e world, could yet find supporters 



396 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

among those, who were the most natural and powerful al- 
lies of a splendid despotism ; that we were the objects of a 
regard and interest throughout the world, which would adO 
to our own resources sulficient strength to carry us safely 
through to final success. 



Goffe the Regicide. — Dwight. 

In the course of Philip's war, which involved almost all 
the Indian tribes in New England, and among others those 
in the neighbourhood of Hadley, the inhabitants thought 
it proper to observe the first of September, 1675, as a day 
of fasting and prayer. While they were in the church, 
and employed in their worship, they were surprised by a 
band of savages. The people instantly betook themselves 
lO their arms, — which, according to the custom of the 
times, they had carried with them to the church, — and, 
rushing out of the house, attacked their invaders. The 
panic, under which they began the conflict, was, however, 
so great, and their number was so disproportioned to that 
of their enemies, that they fought doubtfully at first, and 
in a short time began evidently to give \vd.flJl'^Ai this mo- 
ment an ancient man, with hoary locks, of a most venera 
ble and dignified aspect, and in a dress widely differing 
from that of the inhabitants, appeared suddenly at their 
head, and with a firm voice and an example of undaunted 
resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them again to the 
conflict, and totally routed the savages. ■ When the battle 
was ended, the stranger disappeared; and no person knew 
whence he had come, or whither he had gone, T^he relief 
was so timely, so sudden^ so unexpected, and so providen- 
tial ; the appearance and the retreat of him who furnished 
it were so unaccountable ; his person was so dignified and 
commanding, his resolution so superior, and his interference 
so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any uncommon 
exercise of credulity, readily believed him to be an angel, 
sent by Heaven for their preservation. ' Nor was this 
opinion seriously controverted, until it was discovered, sev- 
eral years afterward, that Goffe and Wijalley had beeo 



COMMON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 3(?1 

lodged in the house of Mr. Russell. Then it was kno-^vE 
that their deHverer was Goffe ; Wi\aUey having become 
s ipcrannuated some time before the evcot took place.* 



General Washington resigning the Command of the 
Army. — Ramsay. 

The hour now approached, in which it became lApcesi^a- 
ry for the American chief to take leave of his officers, wl:o 
had been endeared to him by a long series of comnon suf- 
ferings and dangers. This was done in a solen^n m^.nrior. 
The officers having previously assembled for the purpose, 
General "Washington joined them, and, calling for a giuxs 
of wine, thus, addressed them: — "With a heart fu'.l of 
love and gratitude, 1 now take leave of you. I ranst d^J- 
voutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous ;ir?d 
happy as your former ones have been glorious and hoiu^iir 
able." Having d -ank, he added, — " I cannot come a- 
each of you to take my leave, but shall be obliged to yoi; 
if each of you wi.I come an-d take me by the hand." 
General Knox, being next, turned to him. Incapable of 
utterance, Washington grasped his hand, and embraced 
him. The officers came up successively, and he took ;:n 
affectionate leave of each of them. Not a v/ord wa^ ar- 
ticulated on either side, A majestic silence prevailed. 
The tear of sensibility glistened in every eye. The ten- 
derness of the scene exceeded all description. V/hen the 
last of the officers had taken his leave, Washington left 
the room, and passed through the corps of liglit infantry to 
the place of embarkation. The officers followed in a sol- 
emn, mute procession, with dejected countenances. On 
his entering the barge to cross the North River, he turned 
towards the companions of his glor^/, and, by waving his 
hat, bid them a silent adieu. Some of them ansv/orcd this 
last signal of respect and affection with tears ; and all of 

* The magic psncil of ?ir Walter Pcott has wrought up tliis romai»- 
Ik jr.cident into a most elnq;ient and beautiful description. It is con- 
t4inri in Bri'jgennrth's relation of Ins adventures in America to Julian 
rcvKiil, in one of the volujnes ol " Peveril of tlie Teak."- -Ei> 
34 



S9S COKilON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

OiCHi gazed upon the hisge, which conveyed him froE 
ilieir sight, till they couid no longer distinguish in it the 
person of their heloved commander-in-chief. 

The army being disbanded, Washington proceeded to 
Annapolis, then the seat of congress, to resign his commis- 
sion. On his w?7 thither, he, of his own accord, dehver- 
ed to the comptroller of accounts in Philadelphia an account 
of the expenditure of all the public money he had ever 
received. This was in his own hand-writing, and every en- 
try wa= m'-de in a very particular manner. Vouchers were 
produ-".;;! f-.r every item, except for secret intelUgence and 
service, which amounted to no more than 1,9S2 pounds 
10 shiili.gs sterling. The whole, which, in the course 
of eight years of war, had passed through his hands, 
amounted only to 14,479 pounds, IS shilhngs 9 pence ster- 
ling. Nothing was charged or retained for personal ser- 
vices ; and actual disbursements had been managed. with 
such economy and fidelity, that they were all covered by 
die above moderate sum. 

After accounting for all his expenditures of puhUc mon- 
ey, (secret service money, for obvious reasons, excepted,) 
with all the exactness which established forms required 
from the inferior officers of his army, he hastened to resign 
into the h;^d3 of the fathers of his country the powers 
with which /ley had in-vested him. This was done in a 
public audience. Congress received him as the founder 
and guardian of the republic. While he appeared before 
them, they silently retraced the scenes of danger and dis- 
tress, through which they had passed together. They re- 
called to mind the blessings of freedom and peace pur- 
chased bj- his arm. They gazed with wonder on their 
fellow-citizen, who appeared more great and worthy of 
esteem in resigning his power, than he had done in glorious- 
ly using it. Every heart was big with emotion. Tears 
of adiiiiration and gratitude burst from every eye. Tae- 
geaeral sympathy was felt by the resigning hero, and wet 
his cheek with a manly tear. After a decent pause, he 
addressed Thomas Mifflin, the president of congress, in the 
following words : 

" Tlie great events on which my resignation dep-ended 
La^'ing at length taken place, I have now the honour ot 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 399 

offering my sincere congratulations to congress, and of pre 
senting myself before them, to surrender into their hands 
the trust committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of 
retiring from the service of my country. 

" Happy in the confirmation of our independence and 
sovereignty, and pleased with the opportunity afforded the 
United States of becoming a respectable nation, I resign, 
with satisfaction the appointment I accepted with diffidence ; 
a diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task, 
which, however, was superseded by a confidence in the 
rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme power 
of the union, and the patronage of Heaven. 

" The successful termination of the war has verified the 
most sanguine expectations ; and my gratitude for the in- 
terposition of Providence, and for the assistance I have re- 
ceived from my countrymen, increases with every review 
of the momentous contest. 

" While 1 repeat my obligations to the army in general, 
I should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge 
in this place the peculiar services and distinguished merits 
of the persons, who have been attached to my person dur- 
ing the war. It was impossible that the choice of confi- 
dential officers to compose my family should have been 
more fortunate. Permit me, sir, to recommend, in partic- 
ular, those who have continued in the service to the pres- 
ent moment, as worthy of the favourable notice and pat- 
ronage of congress. 

" I consider it as an indispensable duty to close this last 
solemn act of my official life, by commending the interests 
of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty God, 
and those who have the superintendence of them to his 
holy keeping. 

" Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire 
from the great theatre of action ; and, bidding an affection- 
ate farewell to this august body, under whose orders I have 
long acted, I here offer my commission, and take my leave 
of all the employments of public life." 

This address being ended. General Washington advanced 
and delivered his commission into the hands of the presidenl 
af congress, who replied as follows : 



400 COMMON-PLACE 300K OF PROSE. 

" The United States, in congress assembled, receive, 
wiih. emotions too affecting for utterance, the solemn resig- 
nation of the authorities under which you have led theii 
troops with success through a perilous and doubtful war. 

" Called upon by your country to defend its invaded 
rights, you accepted the sacred charge before it had formed 
alliances, and whilst it was without friends or a govern- 
ment to support you. 

" You have conducted the great military contest with 
wisdom and fortitude, invariably regarding the rights of 
the civil power through all disasters and changes. You 
have, by the love and confidence of your fellow-citizens, 
enabled them to display their martial genius, and transmit 
their fame to posterity : you have persevered, till these 
United States, aided by a magnanimous king and nation, 
have been enabled, under a just Providence, to close the 
war in safety, freedom and independence ; on which 
happy event we sincerely join you in congratulations. 

" Having defended the standard of liberty in this new 
world, having taught a lesson useful to those who inflict, 
and to those who feel oppression, you retire from the great 
theatre of action with the blessings of your fellow- citizens ; 
but the glory of your virtues v.ill not terminate with- your 
military command ; it will continue to animate remotest 
ages. We feel with you our obligations to the army ia 
general, and will particularly charge ourselves with the 
interest of those confidential officers, who have attended 
your person to this affecting moment. 

" We join you in commending the interests of our dear- 
est country to the protection of Almighty God, beseeching 
him to dispose the hearts and minds of its citizens to im- 
■»rove the opportunity afforded them of becoming a happy 
and respectable nation ; and for you we address to him our 
earnest prayers, that a life so beloved may be fostered with 
all his care ; that your days may be happy as they have 
been illustrious, and that he will finally give you that re- 
ward, which this world cannot give." 

The military services of General Washington, which 
ended with this interesting day, ^vere as great as ever were 
rendered by any man to any nation. They were at the 
eame time disinterested. How dear would not a meicen^- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 401 

ry mMi have sold such toils, such dangers, and, above all, 
such successes ! What schemes of grandeur and of power 
would not an ambitious man have built upon the affections 
of the people and of the army ! The gratitude of Amer- 
ica was so lively, that any thing asked by her resigning 
chief would have been readily granted. He asiced noth- 
ing for himself, his family or relations: but indue ;tly so- 
licited favours for the confidential officers, who were at- 
tached to his person. These were young gentlemen, with- 
out fortune, who had served him in the capacity of aids- 
de-camp. To have omitted the opportunity which then 
offered of recommending them to their country's notice, 
would have argued a degree of insensibility in the breast 
of their friend. The only privilege distinguishing him 
from other private citizens, which the retiring Washington 
did or would receive from his grateful country, was a 
right of sending and receiving letters free of postage. 

The American chief, having by his own voluntary act 
become one of the people, hastened, with ineffable delight, 
to his seat at Mount Vernon, on the banks of the Potomac. 
There, in a short time, the most successful general in the 
world became the most diligent farmer in Virginia. 

To pass suddenly from the toils of the first commission 
in the United States to the care of a farm, to exchange 
the instruments of war for the implements of husbandry, 
and to become at once the patron and example of ingenious 
agriculture, would, to most men, have been a difficult task. 
To the elevated mind of Washington it was natural and 
delightful. 

His own sensations, after retiring from public business, 
are thus expressed in his letters : — " I am just beginning 
to experience the ease and freedom from public cares, 
^"hich, however desirable, it takes some time to realize ; for, 
strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that it was 
not until lately I could get the better of my usual custom 
of ruminating, as soon as I awoke in the morning, on the 
business of the ensuing day ; and of my surprise on find- 
ing, after revolving many things in my mind, that I wag 
no longer a public man, or had any thing to do with public 
transactions. I feel as I conceive a wearied traveller must 
S4 



402 COMMOISf-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

ilo, who, after treading many a painful step with a heavy 
burden on liis shoulders, is eased of the latter, having 
reached the haven to which all the former were directed 
and, from his housetop is looking back, and tracing witlj 
an eager eye the meai iers by which he escaped the quick- 
sands and mires, which lay in his way, and into which 
none but the all-powerful Guide and Dispenser of human 
events could have prevented his falling." 

" i have become a private citizen on the banks of the 
Potomac ; and, under the shadow of my own vine and my 
own fig-tree, free from the bustle of a camp, and the busy 
scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with those tran- 
quil enjoyments, of which the soldier, who is ever in pur- 
suit of fame, — the statesman, whose watchful days and 
sleepless nights are spent in devising schemes to promote 
the welfare of his own, perhaps the ruin of other countries, 
as if this globe was insulficient for us all, — and the cour- 
tier, who is always watching the countenance of his prince, 
in the hope of catching a gracious smile, — can have very 
little conception. I have not only retired from all public 
employments, but am retiring within myself, and shall be 
able to view the solitary walk, and tread the paths of pri- 
vate life, with heartfelt satisfaction. Envious of none, I 
am determined to be pleased with all ; and this, my dear 
friend, being the order of my march, I will move gently 
down the stream of life, until I sleep with my fathers." 

Mr. Marshall thus finishes this beautiful picture. — Ed. 

For several months after reaching Mount Vernon, al' 
most every day brought him tlie addresses of an affection- 
ate ana grateful people. The glow of expression, in which 
the high sense universally entertained of his services was 
conveyed, manifested a warmth of feeling seldom equal- 
led in the history of man. It is worthy of remark, that this 
unexampled tribute of applause made no impression on the 
unassuming modesty of his character and deportment. The 
same firmness of mind, the same steady and well-tempered 
judgment, which had guided him through the most peril- 
ous seasons of the war, still regulated his conduct ; and 
ttie esithusias/ic applauses of an admiring nation appeared 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOSE. 403 

oiily lo cherish sentiments of gratitude, and to give great- 
er activity to the desire siill further to contribute to the 
prosperity of his country. 



Alexander Wilson. — North American Review. 

He was a Scotchman by birth. The first years of his res- 
idence in this country were devoted to school-keeping m 
Pennsylvania. An early acquaintance with the venerable 
Bartram kindled within him a love of science ; and after 
he commenced his ornithological inquiries, he pursued them 
for the remaining short period of his life with an enthusi- 
asm, perseverance, and self-devotion, which have rarely 
been equalled. He died in Philadelphia, August 23d, 
1813, at the age of forty-seven. His American Ornithol- 
ogy, executed under every possible disadvantage, and with 
encouragement so slender, as hardly to keep hini from the 
heavy pressure of want, is a monument to his name that 
will never decay. The old world and the new will regard 
it with equal admiration. " We may add without hesita- 
tion," says Mr. Bonaparte, " that such a work as he has 
published in a new country, is still a desideratum in Eu- 
rope." To accomplish such a work, with all the facilities 
which the arts and knowledge of Europe afford, would con- 
fer no common distinction. But when it is considered that 
Wilson taught himself, almost unassisted, the arts of draw- 
ing and engraving ; that he made his way in the science 
with very little aid from books or teachers ; that he entered 
a path in which he could find no companions, none to 
stimulate his ardour by a similarity of pursuits or commu- 
nion of feeling, none to remove his doubts, guide his in- 
quiries, or to be deeply interested in his success ; when these 
things are considered, the labours of Wilson must claim a 
praise, which is due to a few only of the solitary efforts of 
talent and enterprise. 

In the strictest s*^nse of the terms, Wilson was a man 
of genius ; his perceptions were quick. Lis impressions 
vivid ; a bright glow of feeling breathes through his cora- 
p<.»5itions. In the professed walks of poetry, his attempt* 



404 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

were not often fortunate ; but his prose writings partake 
of the genuine poetic spirit. A lively fancy, exulierance 
of thought, and minute observation of the natural world, 
are strongly indicated in whatever has flowed from his pen. 
He travelled for the double purpose of procuring subscrip- 
tions to his book, and searching the forest for birds ; and 
some of his graphic descriptions of the scenery of nature, 
and the habits of the winged tribes, are inimitable. Some- 
times he walked ; at others descended rivers in a canoe ; 
again he was on horseback, in a stage-coach or a farmer's 
wagon, as the great ends of his wanderings could be most 
easily attained. The cold repulses of the many from 
whom he solicited subscriptions he bore with equanimity ; 
undaunted by disappointment, unsubdued by toil and pri- 
vation. The acquisition of a new bird, or of new facts 
illustrating the habitudes of those already known, was a 
fountain of joy in his gloomiest moments ; it poured the wa- 
ters of oblivion over the past, and gave him new energy 
in his onward course. The following are his descriptions 
of the mocking bird and bald eagle • 

" This distinguished bird, [the eagle,] as he is the most 
beautiful of his tribe in this part of the world, and the 
adopted emblem of our country, is entitled to particular no- 
tice. He has been long known to naturalists, being com- 
mon to both continents, and occasionally met with from a 
very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid 
zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the 
shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by 
nature for braving the severest cold ; feeding equally upon 
the produce of the sea and of the land ; possessing powers 
of flight capable of outstripping even the tempest ts them- 
selves ; unawed by any thing but man ; and, from the 
ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one 
glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fieldsj lakes 
and ocean, deep below him ; he appears indifferent to the 
little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes 
he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the 
higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, 
and thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic re- 
gions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons 
in the countries which he inhabits, but prefers such places 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRCrfE. 405 

as have been mentioned above, from the great parti;iiity 
he has for fish. 

" In procuring these he displays, in a very singular man- 
ner, the genius and energy of his character, Vi^hich is 
fierce, contemplative, daring and tyrannical ; attributes 
not exerted but on particular occasions, but, whep put 
forth, overwhelming all opposition. Elevated upon a high, 
'ead limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide 
view of the neighbouring shore and ocedin, he seems calmly 
to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes 
that pursue their busy avocations below, — the snow-white 
gulls, slowly winnowing the air, — the busy tringas, cours- 
ing along the sands, — trains of ducks, streaming over the 
surface, — silent, and watchful cranes, intent and wading, — 
clamorous crows, and all the winged multitudes that sub- 
sist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. 
High over all these hovers one, whose action instantly 
arrests his attention. By his wide curvature of wing, ani' 
sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish- 
hawk settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His 
eye kindles at the sight, and, balancing himself with half- 
opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, 
rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object 
of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as 
it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. 
At this moment the looks of the eagle are all ardour ; and, 
levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk emerge, 
struggling with his prey, and mounting into the air witi 
screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, 
who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, soon 
gains on the fish-hawk, each exerts his utmost to mount 
above the other, displaying in these rencounters the most 
elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unincum- 
bered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of 
.eacl ing his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, prob- 
ably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his 
fish ; the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take 
a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it 
in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill- 
gotten booty silently ^way to the woods.*' 



406 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

" The plumage of the mocking-bird, though noue of the 
homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it ; and, had 
he nothing else to recommend him. would scarcely entitle 
him to notice ; but his figure is well proportioned, and even 
handsome. The ease, elegance and rapidity of his move- 
ments, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he 
displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost 
every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, 
are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. 
To these qualities v/e may add that of a voice full, strong 
and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from 
the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush, to the savage 
screams of the bald eagle. In measure and accent, he 
faithfuiU- follows his originals. In force and sweetness of 
expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native 
groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush, or half-grown 
tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are 
already vocal with a raultitude of warblers, his admirable 
song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear 
can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others 
seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain alto- 
gether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily 
distinguishable by such as are acquainted with those of our 
various song birds, are bold and full, and varied seemingly 
beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, 
three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally in- 
terspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with 
great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undimin- 
ished ardour for half an hour or an hour at a time ; his 
expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the 
buoyant gayety of his action, arresting the eye as his song 
most irresistibly does the ear. He sweeps round with 
eadtusiastic ecstasy. He mounts and descends as his song 
swells or dies awajr ; and, as my friend Mr. Bartram has 
f'eau "ifulb,- expressed it, ' he bounds aloft with the celerity 
of an arrow, as if to recover or recall bis very soul, which 
expired in the last elevated strain.' While thus exerting 
himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that 
the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a 
trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect ; — « 
BO perfect are his imitations. He many tines deceives th« 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 407 

cpcrtom&n, and sends him in search of birds that perhapa 
are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly 
iniit?,tc3. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed 
en by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fan- 
cied calls of their mates ; or dive with precipitati a into the 
depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to 
be the sparrow-hawk." 



Female Education and Learning. — Story. 

If Christianity may be said to have given a permanent 
elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it 
is as true that the present age, above all others, has given 
play to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influ- 
ence. It was the fashion of other times to treat the liter- 
ary acquirements of the sex as starched pedantry, or vain 
pretension ; to stigmatize them as inconsistent with those 
domestic aftections and virtues, which constitute the charm 
of society. We had abundant homilies read upon their 
amiable weaknesses and sentimental delicacy, upon their 
timid gentleness and submissive dependence ; as if to taste 
the fruit of knowledge were a deadly sin, and ignorance 
were the sole guardian of innocence. Their whole lives 
were "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and 
concealment of intellectual power was often resorted to, 
to escape the dangerous imputation of masculine strength. 
In the higher walks of life, the satirist was not without 
colour for the suggestion, that it was 

" A youth of folly, an old age of cards ;" 

and that, elsewhere, " most women had no character at all," 
beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Ad- 
mirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the 
gifts of Pi'OTidencc to deny to mothers the power of in- 
structing their children, to wives the privilege of sharing 
the ratellectual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and 
daughters the deli^Lc oi ministering knowledge in the 
fireside circle, to ycuih and \)Lt.Jzj the charm of refinsd 
5-?,n=e, to age and ir.;l)'irilty thi. co;.>'.olat»vn cf pUulies, whici 



40S COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PE05E. 

elevate the soul, and gladden the listless hcur? of d-:^cn« 
dency. 

These things have, in a great measure, p:^:f€d s^ey. 
The prajudices, which dishonoured the sex, hive jisided 
to the ir.3uence of truth. By slow hut sure advances, 
education has extended itself dirough all ranks of fen.ale 
society. There is no longer any dread, lest the culture 
of science should foster that masculine boldness or restless 
independence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its 
inconsistencies. We have seen that here, as every where 
else, knowledge is favourable to human virtue and human 
happiness ; that the rennement of literature adds lustre to 
the devotion of piety ; that true learning, like true taste, 
is modest and unostentatious ; that grace of manners re- 
ceives a higher polish from the discipline of the schools : 
that cultivated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic 
duties, and its very sparkles, hke those of the diamond, 
attest at once its power and its purity. There is not a rank 
of female society, however high, which does not now pay 
homage to hterature, or that would not blush even at the 
suspicion of that ignorance, which, a half century ago, 
was neither uncommon nor discreditable. There is not a 
parent, whose pride may not glow at the thought, that his 
daughter's happiness is in a great measure within her own 
command, whether she keeps the cool, sequestered vale of 
life, or visits the busy walks of fashion. 

A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alle- 
viate the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed 
sacrifice ot dignity or modesty. Man no longer aspiies to 
an exclusive dominion in authorship. He has rivals or al- 
lies in almost every department of knowledge ; and they 
are to be found among those, whose elegance of manners 
and blamelessness of life command his respect, as much as 
their talents excite his admiration. Who is there that does 
not contemplate with enthusiasm the precious fragTi:aits of 
Ehzabeth Smith, the venerable learning of E'izabetli Gr-r- 
ter, the elevated piety of Hannah More, tlie persGaslva 
sense cf Mrs. Barbauld, the elegant memoirs of her ac- 
complished niece, the bewitching fiction of Madame P'Ar- 
blay, the vivid, picturesque and terrific imagery of Mrs 
RadclifTc, the glowing paeir> cf Mr>. Heisaus, the matclr 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 409 

less wit, the inexhaustible conversations, the fine charac- 
ter painting, the practical instructions of Miss Edgeworth,, 
the great Known, standing in her own department by tlia 
side of the great Unknown ! 



Poetical Character of Gray. — Buckminster. 

It has been the fortune of Gray, as well as of other po* 
ets of the first order, to suffer by the ignorance and the 
envy of contemporaries, and at last to obtain from posteri- 
ty, amid the clamours of discordant criticism, only a divided 
suffrage. The coldness of his first reception by the public 
has, however, been more than compensated by the warmth 
of his real admirers ; for he is one of those few poets, who 
at every new reading recompenses you double for every 
encomium, by disclosing some new charm of sentiment or 
of diction. The many, who have ignorantly or reluctantly 
praised, may learn, as they study him, that they have noth- 
ing to retract : and those, who have delighted to depreciate 
his excellence, will understand, if thej'- ever learn to ad- 
mire him, that their former insensibility was pardonable, 
though they may be tempted to wish, that it had never 
been known. Gray was not destitute of those anticipations 
of future fame, which God has sometimes granted to 
neglected genius, as he gives the testimony of conscience 
to suffering virtue. His letters to Mason and Hurd show 
how pleasantly he could talk of those, v/ho could neither 
admire nor understand his odes. He knew, that it was 
not of much consequence to be neglected by that public, 
which suffered Thomson's Winter to remain for years un- 
noticed, and which had to be told by Addison, at the expi 
ration of half a century, of the merit of the Paradise Lost 
St'll less could his fame be endangered by Colman's ex- 
qu.sitely humorous parody of his odes, especially since it 
Is new knov/n, that Colman has confessed to Warton, that 
he repented of the attempt ; and, at the present day, J 
know not whether it would add any thing to the final rep- 
utation of a lyric poet, to have been praised by that great 
Bian, who could pronounce Dryden's ode on Mrs. Ki'ligrew 
35 



410 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 

the finest in our language, and who could find nothing is 
Collins' but " clusters of consonants." 



If Gray has any claim to the character of a poet, he 
must hold an elevated rank or none. If he is not excellent, 
he is supremely ridiculous ; if he has not the living spi) it 
of verse, he is only besotted and bewildered with the fumea 
of a vulgar and stupifying draught, Vt^hich he found in 
some stagnant pool at the foot of Parnassus, and which he 
mistook for the Castalian spring. But if Pindar and Hor- 
ace were poets, so too was Gray. The finest notes of their 
lyre were elicited by the breath of inspiration breathing 
on the strings ; and he, who cannot enter into the spirit 
w^hich animates the first Pythian of Pindar, or the " Quem 
virum aut heroa" of Horace, must be content to be shown 
beauties in Gray, which it is not yet granted him to feel, 
or spontaneously to discern. I am willing to rest the meriv 
of Gray on Horace's definition of a poet, — 

" Ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior, atqne os, 
^lagns, sonamruin, sed nominis hujiis honoreni." 



We shall be more ready to admit, that the sole perfec- 
tion of poetry consists not merely in faithful description, 
fine sense, or pointed sentiment in polished verse, if we 
attend to some curious remarks of Burke, in the last part 
of his Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. He has there 
sufficiently shown that many fine passages, which produce 
the most powerful effect on a sensible mind, present no 
ideas to the fancy, which can be strictly marked or im- 
bodied. The most thrilling touches of sublimity and beau- 
ty are consistent with great indistinctness of images and 
conceptions. Indeed, it is hardly to be believed, before 
making the experiment, thst we should be so much affect- 
ed as we are, by passages which convey no definite picture 
to the mind. To those v/ho are insensible to Gray's curi- 
ous junction of phrases and hardy personifications, we rec- 
ommend the study of this chapter of Burke. There thej 
will see, that the effect of poetical expression depends mor< 
Epon particular and indefinable associations, than upon the 



COMMON-PLACE BOOKOFlHObft. 411 

precise images which the words convey. TI i-.s", cf Or?y'3 
poetry, the effect, lik'^. that of Miltoa's finest, [i.x'- ■ i^.r-,-^. in 
the Allegro and Penseroso, is to raise a gl n<', wlvch it U 
not easy to describe ; but the beauty of a rjas.'-agej when 
we attempt to analyze it, seems to consist in a .ertaiu ex- 
quisite felicity of terms, fraught with pictures \\hich it is 
impossTble to transfer with perfect exactness to the canvass. 



If the perfection of poetry consists in imparting evei/ 
impression to the mind in the most exquisite degree, and 
the ode has, by the consent of critics in all ages, been in- 
dulged in irregularities which are not pardonable in other 
kinds of verse, because it is supposed to follow the rapid 
and unrestrained passage of images through the mind, it is 
surely enough to satisfy even Aristotle himself, that in 
Gray's odes the subject is never entirely deserted, and thai 
a continued succession of sublime or beautiful impressions 
is conveyed to the mind, in language the most grateful to 
the ear which jur English tongue can furnish. For my 
own part, I t-^ke as much delight in contemplating the rich 
hues that succeed one another without order in a deep cloud 
in the west, which has no prescribed shape, as in view- 
ing the seven colours of the rainbow disposed in a form 
exactly semicircular. The truth is, that, after having read 
any poem once, we recur to it afterwards not as a whole, 
but for the beauty of particular passages. 

It would be easy to reply in order to the invidious and 
contemptible criticisms of Johnson on particular passages 
in these odes, and to show their Ccptioua fuf.l^y. This, 
however, has been frequently and successfuDy atteirpted. 
Those faults, which must at last be admificd in Gray's 
poetry, detract little from his mer't. That only ".tto 
flat kfces should be found in a Vi^^ole volume of poejus. i?. 
an honour v/hich even Virgil might be permitted to envy. 
He who can endure to dwi.ll upon these petty blemishca 
in Vae lull stream of Gray's entlmsiasiu, must be as ic.^cn 
sible to the pomp and grandeur of poetic phrase, as tha^ 
traveller would he to the scatiment of the sublime in na 
ture, who could sit coolly by the caLaxactoi Nia|;tr?.> I'per 



412 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSK. 

ulating upon the chips and straws that were carried ovet 
the ihW 

Th?/. l)"s digressions are .sometimes abrupt, is a character 
whic^^ hs 5h..;..s with his Grecian master: and that an 
obscurity ronedines broods over his subliinest images, is not 
to be f'eni-','. But violence of transition, if it is a fault in 
this kind of poetry, must be excused by those laws of lyrical 
composition, which we have hitherto been content to re- 
ceive, like the laws of the drama and the epic, implicitly 
from the ancients ; and the obscurity of Gray is never in- 
vincible. It is not the fog of dulness ; but, like the dark- 
ness which the eye at first perceives in excessive bright- 
ness, it vanishes the longer it is contemplated, and when 
the eye is accommodated to the flood of light. 



The distinguishing excellence of Gray's poetry is, I 
think, to be found in the astonishing force and beauty of 
his epithets. In other poets, if you are endeavouring to 
recollect a passage, and find that a single word still eludes 
you, it is not impossible to supply it occcasionally with 
something equivalent or superior. But let any man at- 
tempt this in Gray's poetry, and he will find that he dos.« 
not even approach the beauty of the original. Like the 
single window in Aladdin's palace, which the grand vizier 
undertook to finish with.^^diamonds equal to the rest, but 
found, after a long trial, that he was not rich enough to 
furnish the jewels, nor ingenious enough to dispose them, 
6io there are lines in Gray, which critics and poets might 
labour fore^er to supply, and without success. This won- 
derful rlc!inc''s of c?L!)icssion has perhaps injured his fume. 
Fcr .sometimes a single word, by giving rise to a suc- 
cesjion cf imag-c-»j which preoccupy the mind, obscures 
the lustre of tiie succeeding epithets. The mind is fa- 
tig-ned and rct?-!ded by t>'e crowd of beauties, soliciting 
the attention at the Raine moment to different graces of 
thou gilt and expression. Ov^i-powered by the blaze of 
embellisliinent, we cry out wiiK Horace, " Parce, Liber! 
parce ! gravi metuende thyrso," Hence Gray, more than 
any other lyric poet, yviU endure to be read in detache/ 
pertloas; and again and again. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRt SE. 413 

Another characteristic of Gray, which, while it detracts 
something from his originality, increases the charm of hia 
verse, is the classical raciness of his diction. . Milton is the 
only English poet who rivals him in the remote learning 
of his allusiop?, and this has greatly restrained the number 
of their admirers. * * * * The meaning of the vord 
rage, in this line of the Elegy, a poem which all profess 
to relish and admire, 

" Chill penury repressed their noble rage," 

cannot be understood without reverting to a common use 
of the word opyrj among the Greeks, to which Gray refers, 
signifying a strong bent of genius. The Progress of Poesy 
is peculiarly full of allusions to the Heathen Mythology 
The sublime imitation of Pindar, in the description of the 
bird of Jupiter, in the second stanza, is almost worth the 
learning of Greek to understand. 

The last perfection of verse, in Vv^hichGray is unrivalled, 
is the power of his numbers. These have an irresistible 
charm even with those, who understand not his meanings 
and without this musical enchantment, it is doubtful 
whether he would have surmounted the ignorance and 
Insensibility, v/ith which he was at first received. Hia 
rhythm and cadences afford a perpetual pleasure, which, 
'n the full contemplation of his other charms, we some- 
times forget to acknowledge. There is nothing, surely, in 
the whole compass of English versification, to be compared 
in musical structure vrith the third stanza of his ode on 
the Progress of Poesy. The change of movement, in the 
SIX last lines, is inexpressibly fine. The effect of these 
varied cadences and measures is, to my ear at least, 
full as great as that of an adagio in music immediately 
following a rondo ; and I admire in silent rapture the 
genius of that man, who could so mould our untractable 
language as to produ(5e all the effect of the great masters 
of musical composition. If the ancient lyrics contained 
many specimens of numerous verse equal to this, we need 
no longer worfder that they were always accompanied with 
music. Poetry never approached nearer to painting, thar 
verse does in this stanza to the most ravishing melody. 
35* 



il4 LOM.MON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



liejniuUcs of Greec: and Italy. — Hamilto.*. 

It is impossible to read the history of the pettj' repubhcs 
of Greece and Italy, ^vithout feeling sensations of horror 
and disgust at the distractions with which they were con- 
tinually agitated, and at the rapid succession of revolutions, 
by which they were kept perpetually vibrating between 
the extremes of tyranny and anarchy. If they exhibit oc- 
casional calms, these only serve as short-lived contrasts to 
the furious storms that are to succeed. If now and then in- 
tervals of felicity open themselves to view, we behold them 
with a mixture of regret, arising from the reflection, that 
the pleasing scenes before us are soon to be overwhelmed 
by the tempestuous waves of sedition and party rage. If 
momentary rays of glory break forth from the gloom, while 
they dazzle as with a transient and fleeting brilliancy, they 
at the same time admonish us to lament that the vices of 
government should pervert the direction and tarnish the 
lu?tre of those bright talents and exalted endowments, for 
which the favoured soils that produced them have been so 
justly celebrated. 

From the disorders that disfigure the annals of those 
republics, the advocates of despotism have drawn argu- 
ments, not only against the forms of republican government, 
but against the very principles of civil liberty. They have 
decried all free governments as inconsistent with the order 
of society, and have indulged themselves in malicious ex- 
ultation over its friends and partisans. Happily for man- 
kind, stupendous fabrics, reared on the basis of liberty, 
which have flourished for ages, have, in a few instances, 
refuted their gloomy sophisms. And I trust America will 
be the broad and solid foundation of other edifices not less 
magnificent, which will be equally permanent monvrr.enls 
of their error. 

But it is not to be denied, tnat the portraits they have 
sketched of republican government were but too just copies 
of the originals from which they were taken, if it ha! 
been found impracticable to have devised models of a more 
perfect structure, the enlightened friends of liberty vrould 
have bee} obliged to abandon the cause of that species of 



COaiAION-PLACE I'.OOK OF PROSE. 415 

govcrument as indefensible. The science of politics, how- 
ever, like most other sciences, has received great improve- 
ment. The efficacy of various principles is now well un- 
derstood, which were either not known at all, or imper- 
fectly known to the ancients. The regular distribution of 
power into distinct departments — the introduction of legis- 
lative balances and checks — the institution of courts com- 
posed of judges holding their offices during good behaviour 
— the representation of the people in the legislature, by 
deputies of the:r own election — these are either whoLy 
new discoveries, or have made their principal progress 
towards perfection in modern times. They are means, and 
powerful means, by which the excellences of republican 
government may be retained, and its imperfections lessened 
or avoided. 



Professional Character of IVilliam Pin^ney. — 
Henry Wheaton. 

In tracing the principal outlines of his public character, 
his professienal talents and attainments must necessarily 
occupy the most prominent place. To extraordinary nat- 
ural endowments, Mr. Pinkney added deep and various 
knowledge in his profession. A long course of study and 
practice had familiarized his mind with the science of ju- 
risprudence. His intellectual powers were most conspicuous 
in the investigations connected with that science. He had 
felt himself originally attracted to it by invincible inclina- 
tion ; it was his principal pursuit in life ; and he never en- 
tirely lost sight of it in his occasional deviations into other 
pursuits and employments. The lures of political ambition 
and the blandishments of polished society, or perhaps a 
vague desire of universal accomplishment and general 
applause, might sometimes tempt him to stray, for a sea- 
son, from the path which the original bent of his genius 
had assigned him. But he always returned with frcs!i 
ardour and new delight to his appropriate vocation. He 
was devoted to the law with a true enthusiasm ; and L;s 
other studies and ">ursuits, so far as they had a p.erio'.:". a> 



416 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

J3ct, were valued chiefly as they might minister to this 
idol of his affections. 

It was in his profession that he found himself at home ; 
in this consisted his pride and his pleasure ; tor, as he said, 
" the bar is not the place to acquire or preserve a false r.nd 
fraudulent reputation for talents." And on that theatre 
he felt conscious of possessing those powers which would 
command success. 

This entire devotion to his professional purs lits was con- 
tinued with unremitting perseverance to the end of his 
career. If the celebrated Benys Talon could say of the 
siiil more celebrated D'Aguesseau, on hearing bis fii^i 
speech at the bar, " that he would willingly e:n^d as that 
young man commenced," every youthful aspirant to 
fuiensic fame am.ong us might wish to begin his professioii- 
al exertions with the same love of labour, and the same ar- 
dent desire of distinction, which marked the efforts oi 
Wilham Pinkney throughout his life. 

What niight not be expected from professional emulation, 
directed by such an ardent spirit and such singleness? of 
purpose, even if sustained by far inferior abilities ! But 
no abilities, however splendid, can command success at the 
bar, without intense labour and persevering application. 
It was this which secured to Mr. Pinkney ■ ie most ex- 
tensive and lucrative practice ever acquired Ly any Amer- 
ican lawyer, and which raised him to such an enviable 
height of professional eminence. For many years he was 
the acknowledged leader of the bar in his native state ; 
and, during the last ten years of his life, the principal pe- 
riod of his attendance in the suprem.e court of the nation, 
he enjoyed the leputation of having been rarely equalled, 
and perhaps never excelled, in the power of reasoning upon 
legal subjects. This was the faculty which nost remark- 
ably distinguished him. His mind was acu.e and subtile, 
and, at the same time, comprehensive in its grasp, rapid 
and clear in its conceptions, and singularly felicitous in 
the eApositiou of the truths it was employed in investi- 
gating. 

Of the extent and solidity of his legal attainments it woula 
be difficult to speak in adequate terms, without the appear- 
ance of exaggeration. He was profoundly versed in the 



COiMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 417 

ancient learning of the common law ; its' technical pecu- 
iiariiies and feudal origin. Its subtile distinclioLs and arti- 
ficial logic were familiar to his early studies, and enabled 
him to expound, with admirable force and perspicuity, the 
rules of real property. He was familiar with every branch 
of commercial law ; and superadded, at a later period of 
his life, to his other legal attainments, an extensive acquaint- 
ance with the principles of international lav/, and the 
practice of the prize courts. In his legal studies he pre- 
ferred the original text-writers and reporters, (e fontibus 
hauriri,) to all those abridgments, digests, and elementary 
treatises, which lend so many convenient helps and facilities 
to the modern lawyer, but which he considered as adapted 
to form sciolists, and to encourage indolence and superficial 
habits of investigation. His favourite law book was the 
Coke Littleton, which he had read many times. Its prin- 
cipal texts he had treasured up in his memory, and his 
arguments at the bar abounded with perpetual recurrences 
to the principles and analogies drawn from this rich mine 
of common law learning:. 



External Appearance of England. — A. H. Everett 

"Whatever may be the extent of the distress in Eng- 
land, or the difficulty of finding any remedies for it, which 
shall be at once practicable and sufficient, it is certain that 
the symptoms of decline have not yet displayed themselves 
on the surface ; and no country in Europe, at the present 
day, probably none that ever flourished at any preceding 
period of ancient o of modern times, ever exhibited so 
strongly the outward marks of general industry, wealth 
and pio.-perity. The misery that exists, whatever it may- 
be, retires from public view; and the traveller sees no 
'races of it except in the beggars, — which are not more nu- 
ir;f rous than they are on the continent, — in the courts of 
justice, and in the newspapers. On the contrary, the im- 
pressions he receives from the objects that meet his view 
are almost uniformly agreeable. He is pleased with the 
^eat attention paid to his personal accommodatica as a 



118 COMSION-PLACi: tiOOK OF TROSE. 

traveller, with the excellent roads, and the couveniencea 
of tlie public carriages and inns. The country every 
v/here exhibits tlie appearance oi" higli cultivation, or else 
of wild and picturesque beauty ; and even the unimproved 
lands are disposed with taste and skill, so as to embellish 
the landscape very highly, if they do not contribute, as they 
might, to the substantial comfort of the people. From 
every eminence extensive parks and grounds, spreading far 
and wide over hill and vale, interspersed with dark woods, 
and variegated with bright waters, unroll themselves be- 
fore the eye, like enchanted gardens. And while the 
elegant constructions of the modern proprietors fill the 
mind with images of ease and luxury, the mouldering ru- 
ins that remain of former ages, of the castles and churches 
of their feudal ancestors, increase the interest of the pic- 
ture by contrast, and associate with it poetical and aflfecting 
recollections of other times and manners. Every village 
seems to be the chosen residence of Indub'try, and hev hand- 
maids. Neatness and Comfort ; and, in the various parts of 
the island, her operations present themselves under the 
most amusing and agreeable variety of forms. Some- 
times her votaries are mounting to the skies in manufacto- 
ries of innumerable stories in height, and sometimes diving 
in mines into the bowels of the earth, or dragging up 
drowned treasures from the bottom of the sea. At one 
time the ornamented grounds of ^ wealthy proprietor seem 
to realize the fabled Elysium ; and~ again, as you pass in 
the evening through some village engaged in the iron 
manufacture, where a thousand forges are feeding at once 
their dark-red fires, and clouding the air with their volumes 
of smoke, you might think yourself, for a moment, a little 
too near some drearier residence. 

The aspect of the cities is as various as that of the coun- 
try. Oxford, in the silent, solemn grandeur of its numer- 
ous collegiate palaces, with their massy stone walls, and 
vast interior quadrangles, seems like the deserted capita^ 
of some departed race of giants. This is the splendid sep- 
ulchre, where Science, like the Roma^i Tarpeia, lies buried 
under the weight of gold that rewarded her ancient ser- 
vices, and where copious libations of the richest Port and 
Madeira are daily poured out to her mem-ory. At Liver* 



r^mMON-PLACE BOOK Oi' PROSE. 419 

pool, on tlrt^ contrary, all is bustle, brick and business. Every 
tiii^i^ bre^ahes of modern times, every body is occupied 
wiih the concerns of the present moment, excepting one 
deu:aot scholar, who unites a singular resemblance to the 
K>n!ian face and dignitied person of our V/ashington, with 
the magnificent spirit and intellectual accomplishments of 
his own Italian hero. 

At every change in the landscape, you fall upon monu- 
ments of some new race of men, among the number that 
have in their turn inhabited these islands. The mysterious 
monument of Stonehenge, standing remote and alone upon a 
bare and boundless heath, as m.uch unconnected with the 
events of past ages as it is with the uses of the present, car- 
ries you back, beyond all historical records, into the obscurity 
of a wholly unknown period. Perhaps the Druids raised it ; 
but by what machinery could these half barbarians have 
wrought and moved such immense masses of rock ? By 
what fatality is it, that, in every part of the globe, the most 
durable impressions that have been made upon its surface 
were the work of races now entirely extinct ? Who were 
the builders of the pyramids, and the massy monuments 
of Egypt and India ? Who constructed the Cyclopean 
w^a'.ls of Italy and Greece, or elevated the innumerable 
and inexplicable mounds, which are seen in every part of 
Europe, Asia, and America; or the ancient forts upon the 
Ohio, on whose ruins the third growth of trees is now more 
thiin four hundred j'ears old ? All these constructions have 
existed through the whole period within the memory of 
man, and will continue, when all the architecture of the 
present generation, with its high civilization and improved 
machinery, shall have crumbled into dust. Stonehenge 
will remain unchanged, when the banks of the Thames 
shall be as bare as Salisbury heath. But the Romans had 
something of the spirit of these primitive builders, and 
tht.y left every where distinct traces of their passage. 
H'.if the castles in Great Britain were founded, according 
to tradition, by Julius Caisar ; and abundant vestiges re- 
main, throughout the island, of their walls, and forts, and 
inili1.iry roads. Most of their castles have, however, been 
buIU upon and augmented at a later period, and belong, 
widi more propriety, to the brilliant period of Gothic arch» 



420 COililOX-PLACE BOOK OF FROsfi. 

tecture. Thus the keep of TVarwick dales fruf*? .Le ijfr>4 
of Caesar, while the castle itself, with its lofty hiitica.<-i;i.-. 
extensive walls, and large enclosures, bears wicnea> U- lUs 
age, when every Norman chief was a military despot v> itb- 
in his own barony. To this period appertains the pnucip.-3 
part of the magnihcent Gothic monuments, castles, cath*j- 
drals, abbeys, priories and churches, in various stages oi 
preservation and of ruin ; some, like Warwick and AIl ??!ck 
castles, Uke Salisbury cathedral and Westminster abL^vy. \v. 
a}l their original perfection ; others, like Kenilworlh ar.d 
Canterbury, little more than a rude mass of earth and rub- 
bish ; and others again in the intermediate stages of deca\ . 
borrowing a sort of charm from their very ruin, and put- 
ting on their dark-green robes of ivy to conceal the ravages 
of time, as if the luxuriant bounty of nature were purposely 
throwing a veil over the frailty and feebleness of art. What 
a beautiful and brilliant vision was this Gothic architecture, 
shining out as it did from the deepest darkness of feuibil 
barbarism ! And here again, by what fatality has it hiin- 
pened that the moderns, with all their civilization and im- 
proved taste, have been as utterly unsuccessful in ri\-a]liiia 
the divine simplicity of the Greeks, as the rude grandeur 
of the Cyclopeans and ancient Egyptians r Since thff revi- 
val of art in Europe, the builders have confined ihemseives 
wholly to a graceless and unsuccessful imitation of ancient 
models. Strange, that the only new architectural conce|> 
tion of any value, subsequent to the time of Phidias, should 
have been struck cut at the worst period of society that 
has since occurred! Sometimes the moderns, in their la- 
borious poverty oi invention, heap up small materials in 
large masses, and think that St. Peter's or St. Paul's will 
be as much more sublime than the Parthenon, as they are 
larger ; at others, they condescend to a servile imitation of 
the wild and native graces of the Gothic; as the Chiuese, 
in their stupid ignorance of perspective, can still copy, line 
by line, and point by point, an European picture. But the 
Norman castles and churches, with all their richness ^r,l 
sublimity, fell with the power of their owners at the rlsa 
of the comnionwealth. The Independents were leveTers 
of substance as well as form ; and the material traces they 
left of their existence are the n.iins of what their prcdeces- 



COMMON-rLACi: BCOK OF PROSE. 421 

Bors hid built. They, too, had an architecture, but it was 
not in wood nor stone. It was enough for them to lay the 
foiindation of the nobler fabric of civil liberty. The effects 
of the only change in society that has since occurred, are 
seen in the cultivated fields, the populous and thriving 
cities, the busy ports, and the general prosperous appear- 
ance of the country. 

Ail the various aspects, that I have mentioned, present 
themselves in turns ; and, having gradually succeeded to 
each other, their contrasts are never too rude, and thoy 
harmonize together so as to make up a most agreeable pic- 
ture. Sometimes, as at Edinburgh, the creations of ancient 
and of modern days, the old and new towns, have placed 
themselves very amicably side by side, like Fitz James 
and Rhoderic Dhu reposing on the same plaid ; while at 
London, the general emporium and central point of the 
v/hole system, every variety of origin and social existence 
is defaced, and all are coagulatt ^ in one uniform though 
heterog-eneous mass. 



Features of American Scenery. — Tudor. 

The numerous waterfalls, the enchanting beauty of 
Lake George and its pellucid flood, of Lake Champlain and 
the lesser lakes, afford many objects of the most picturesque 
character ; while the inland seas, from Superior to Ontario, 
and that astounding cataract, whose roar would hardly be 
increased by the united murmurs of all the cascades of 
Europe, are calculated to inspire vast and sublime concep- 
tions. The effects, too, of our climate, composed of a Si- 
berian winter and an Italian summer, furnish new and 
pecuUar objects for description. The circumstances of re 
mote regions are here blended, and strikingly opposite ap- 
pearances witnessed in the same spot at different seasons 
of the year. In our winters, we have the sun at the same 
altitude as in Italy, shining on an unlimited surface of snow, 
which can only be found in the higher latitudes of Europe, 
wliere the sun jn the winter rises little above the horizon. 
The dazzling brilliance of a winter's day tnd a moonlighl 
86 



t£i COSraO>-PI^tE sous OF FROSE. 

night, in an atmospheje astciiisliiiiglj clear and frostj. irlies 

die utmost splendour of the sky is reflected iroiii a turfeee 

of spotless white, attended with the moat excessive cold, is 
peculiar to the northern part of the United States. ^Vliat, 
too. can s"arpass the celestial purity and trxLasparency of Ihe 
atmosphere in a fine autumnal day, -when our vision and 
our thought seem carried to the third heaven; the gorgeous 
magnificence of the close, when the sun siuks trom^ our 
view, surrounded with various m^asses of clouds fringed 
with gold and purple, and refiecting, in evane?cpnt tints, 
all the hues of the rainbow i 



Literary Character of Jefferson and Adams — 
Webster. 

The last public labour of Mr. Jefierson naturallr sug- 
gests the expression of the high praise which is due. both 
to him and to Mr. Adams, for their uniform and zealous 
attachment to learning, and to the cause of general know^ 
edge. Of the advantages of learning, indeed, and of lit- 
erary accomplishments, their own characters were striking 
recommendations and illustrations. They were scholars, 
ripe and good scholars ; widely acquainted with ancient as 
well as modem literature, and not altogether uninstructed 
in the deeper sciences. Their acquirements doubtless were 
different, and so were the particular objects of their liter- 
ary pursuits ; as their tastes emd characters in these re- 
spects differed like those of other men. Being also men 
of busy lives, with great objects requiring action constant- 
ly before them, their attainments in letters did not become 
showy or obtrusive. Yet I would hazard the opinion, 
that, if we could now ascertain all the causes which gave 
them eminence and dbtinrlion in the midst of the great 
men with whom they acted, we shouEd find not among the 
least their early acqui>idon in literature, the resources 
which it furnished, the \ romptitude and facility which it 
communicated, and the w de field it opened for analogy and 
niuslration: giving them thus, on every subject, a larger 



COxMMON-PLAC^E BOOK. OF PROSE. 423 

viev! and a broader range, as well for discussion as for the 
government of their own conduct. 

Literature sometimes, and pretensions to it much oftener, 
disgusts, by appearing to hang loosely on the character, like 
something foreigner extraneous ; not a part, but an ill-ad- 
justed appendage ; or by seeming to overload and weigh 
it down by its unsightly bulk, like the productions of bad 
taste in architecture, when there is massy and cumbrous 
ornament, without strength or solidity of column. This 
has exposed learning, and especially classical learning, to 
reproach. Men have seen that it might exist without 
mental superiority, without vigour, without good taste, and 
without utility. Bu*:, in such cases, classical learning has 
only not inspired natural talent ; or, at most, it has but made 
original feebleness of intellect and natural bluntness of 
perception somewhat more conspicuous. The question, af- 
ter all, if it be a question, is, whether literature, ancient 
as well as modern, does not assist a good understanding, 
improve natural good taste, add polished armour to native 
strength, and render its possessor not only more capable 
of deriving private happiness from contemplation and re- 
fection, but more accomplished also for action in the affairs 
cf life, and especially for public action. Those, whose 
memories we now honour, were learned men; but their 
learning was kept in its proper place, and made subservi- 
ent to the uses and objects of life. They were scholars, 
not common nor superficial ; but their scholarship was so 
in keeping with their character, so blended and inwrought, 
that careless observers or bad judges, not seeing an osten- 
tatious display of it, might infer that it did not exist ; for- 
getting, or not knowing, that classical learning, in men 
who act in conspicuous public stations, perform duties which 
exercise the faculty of writing, or address popular, jndicitil, 
cr deliberative bodies, is often felt where it is little seen, 
and sometimes felt more effectually because it is not seeM 
at ail. 



f24 COMM OX-PLACE li'J'JK OF PROSE. 



Eloquence and Humour of Patrick Heniy. -—Wib.t. 

Hook was a Scotchman, a man of wealth, and suspected 
of being unfriendly to the American Ause. During the 
distresses of the American army, consequent on the joint 
invasion of CornwalHs and Phillips in 1731, a Mr. Vena- 
ble, an army commissary, had taken two of Hook's steers 
for the use of the troops. The act had not been stiictly 
legal ; and, on the establishment of peace. Hook, on the 
advice of Mr. Cowan, a gentleman of some distinction ip 
the law, thought proper to bring an action of tres-pa-^'' 
against Mr. Yenable, in the district court of New London. 
Mr. Henry appeared for the defendant, and is said to have 
disported himself in this cause to the infinite enjoyment of 
his hearers, the unfortunate Hook always excepted. After 
Mr. Henry became animated in the cause, says a corre- 
spondent, he appeared to have complete control over the 
passions of his audience : at one time he excited their in- 
dignation against Hook : vengeance was visible in every 
countenance : again, when he chose to relax, and ridicule 
him, the whole audience was in a roar of laughter. He 
painted the distresses of the American army, exposed, al- 
most naked, to the rigours of a winter's sky, and marking 
the frozen ground over which they trod with the blood of 
their unshod feet. Where was the man, he said, who had 
an American heart in his bosom, who would not have thrown 
open his fields, his barns, his cellars, the doors of his house, 
the portals of his breast, to have received with open arms 
the meanest soldier in that little band of famished patriots ? 
Where is the man ? There he stands — but whether the 
heart of an American beats in his bosom, you, gentlemen, 
are to judge. He then carried the jury by the powers of 
his imagination to the plains around York, the surrender 
of which had followed shortly after the act complained of: 
he depicted the surrender in the most glowing and noble 
colours of his eloquence — the audience saw before their 
eyes the humiliation and dejection of the British as they 
marched oui of their trenches — they saw tha triumph 
which lighted up every patriot face, and heard the shouts 
tf victory, ard the cry of ' Washington and liberty,' as '' 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



425 



rung and echoed through the American ranks, and 
was reverberated from the hills and shores of the neigh- 
bouring river — "but, hark! what notes of discord are 
these, vv'hich disturb the general joy, and silence the accla 
mation of victory — they are the notes of John Hook, 
hoarsely bawling through the American camp, ^ Beef ! 
beef ! beef !' " 

The whole audience were convulsed: a particular inci- 
dent will give a better idea of the effect than any general 
description. The clerk of the court, unable to command 
himself, and unwilling to commit any breach of decorum 
in his place, rushed out of the court-house, and threw him- 
self on the grass, in the most violent paroxysm of laughter, 
where he was rolling, when Hook, with very different feel- 
ings, came out for relief into the yard also. "Jemmy 
Steptoe," said he to the clerk, '^w^hatthe devil ails ye, 
mon.?" Mr. Steptoe was only able to say that he could 
not help it. '* Never mind ye," said Hook; ''wait till 
Billy Cowan gets up; he'll shov/ him the la' !" Mr. Cow- 
an, however, was so completely overwhelmed by the tor- 
rent which boie upon his client, that, wlien he rose to re- 
ply to Mr. Henry, he v/as scarcely able to make an intelli- 
gible or audible remark. The cause vv^^as aecided almost by 
acclamation. The jury retired for form's sake, and instant- 
ly returned with a veidict for the defendant. Nor did the 
effect of Mr. Henry's speech stop here. The people were 
30 highly excited by the tory audacity of such a suit, that 
Hook began to hear around him a cry more terrible than 
that of beef^ i+ was the cry of tar and feathers ; from the 
application of which it is said, that nothing saved him but 
ft precipitate flight and the speed of his horse. 



Valley of the Commanches. — Francis Berrian. 

I AROSE early in the morning to make the circuit of this 
larely vale. At the extremity of the village, the torrent 
whose soiir^ei^ v/eie in the mountains, poured down, from 
a prodigious elevation, a white and perpendicular cascade, 
wliioli seemed a sheet suspended in the air. It falls into 



I 

(26 COJIMON-rLACE BOCK OF PROSE. j 

% circular basin, paved with blue limestone, ol some rodi i 

eircuit. Tiie dash near at liand lias a startling effect upon I 

the ear. But at a little distance, it is just the murmur to • 

inspire repose, and it spreads a delicious coolness all around j 

the place. From the basin the stream seems to partake of [ 

the I'epose of the valley ; for it broadens into a transparent 
and quiet water, whose banks are fringed with pawpaws, 
persiinon, laurel, and catalpa shrubs and trees, interlaced 
with vines, under which the green carpet is rendered gay i 

with flowers of every scent and hue. The soil is blacky I 

tender, and exuberantly fertile. The coolness of the vale 1 

and the shade, together with the irrigation of the stream, j 

cover the whole valley with a vivid verdure. The beauti- { 

ful red-bird, with its crimson-tufted crest, and the nightin- ] 

gale sparrow, pouring from a body scarcely larger than an i 

acorn a continued stream of sound, a prolonged, plaintive i 

and sweetly-modulated harmony, that might be heard at the | 

distance of half a mile, had commenced their morning j 

voluntary. The mocking bird, the buffoon of songsters, 
was parodying the songs of all the rest. Its short and jerking } 

notes at times iinitated bursts of laughter. Sometimes, laying 
aside its habitual levity, it shows that it knows the notes 
of seriousness, and trills a sweetly-melancholy strain 
Above the summits of these frowning mountains, that mor- 
tal foot had never yet trodden, soared the mountain eagle, 
drinking the sunbeam in the pi-ide of his native indepen- 
dence. Other birds of prey, apparently poised on their 
wings, swam slowly round in easy curves, and seemed to 
look with delight upon the green spot embosomed in the 
mountains. They sallied back and forwards, as though they 
could not tire of the view. The sun, which had burnished 
all the tops of the mountains with gold, and here and there 
glistened on banks of snow, would not shine inio the val- 
ley, until he had almost gained his meridian height. Th« 
natives, fleet as the deer when on expeditions abroad, and at 
home lazy and j'awning, were just issuing from their cabins, 
and stretching their limbs supinely in the cool of the m- ra- 
ing. The smoke of their cabin fires had begun to unduiate 
and whiten in horizontal pillars athwart the valie^v it 
was a charming assemblage of strong contrasts, rocky and 
inaccessible mountains, the deep and ince=sanT; :odr of tha 



CvOMMON-FLACE KOOIv OF PROSE. 427 

Btream, a valley that seemed to sleep between ibc.^e im- 
pregnable ramparts of nature, a little region of landscape 
surrounded by black and ragged cliirs, on every side dotted 
thick with brilliant and beautiful vegetation, and fragrant 
with hundreds of acacias, and catalpas in full flower, a spot 
sequestered like a lonely isle in the midst of the ocean; 
in the midst of it a simple, busy, and undescribed people, 
whose forefathers had been born and had died here for un- 
counted generations ; a people who could record war-'. 
loves, and all the changes of fortune, if they had had Ihcii 
historiL^u. Such was the valley of the Commancljes. 

There are places where I am at once at home with Na- 
ture, and where she seems to take me to her bosom with 
all the fondness of a mother. I forget at once that 1 am 
a stranger in a strange land ; and this was one of those 
places. I cannot describe the soothing sensations I felt. 1 
listened to the mingled sounds of a hundred birds, the bark- 
ing of the dogs on the acclivities of the hills, the cheerful 
sounds of the domestic animals, and the busy hum of the 
savages. The miorning was fresh and b.i'my. I'he sublime 
nature above me, and the (piiet and happy v.uiiiiated nature 
on my own level, seemed to beoccui^ictJ r\ mofiiing orisons 
to the Creator. I, too, felt the glad thrill of <levotion come 
over my mind. " Those are thy works. Parent of good,'* 
Kere, thought I, in this delightful vale, willi a few friends, 
is the place where one would choose lo <lreaif away his 
slz.ori day and night, forgetting and forgotten. 

" Here would I live, ninu'tif:ed and irnkuown, 
Hcrfc, uiilaiiieiilcd, vvould i di« ; 
Steal from the world, and ri<il a «tono 
Teli where 1 he." 



Fleasurcs of the Man of a refined nui^qvAGiion^-- 
Idjlk Ma.v. 

When such a one turns away from men, anil is left cloie. 
in silent con-U'iui.on with nature and his cwn thougi.ii^, 
and there are no bou!.ds to tlie .nr-vements of the feclinga, 
Uid nothing on which he would s';ut Ids eyes, but God'fl 



iSS CO^OrON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

ewn hand has made all before him as it is, he feels his 
Epirit opening upon a new existence — becoming as broad 
tis the sun and the air — as various as the earth over which 
il s])re;ids itself, and touched with that love which God has 
imaged in all he has formed. His senses take a quicker 
life, — his v.hole frame becomes one refined and exquisite 
emotion, and the etherealized body is made, as it were, a 
spirit in bliss. His soul grows stronger and more active 
within him as he sees life intense and working throughout 
nature ; and tliat which passes away links itself with the 
eternal, when he finds new life beginning even with decay, 
and hastening to put forth in some other form of beanty, 
and become a sharer in some new delight. His spirit 
is ever av/ake with happy sensations, and cheerful, and in- 
nocent, and easy thoughts. Soul and body are blending 
into one — the senses and thoughts mix in one delighf — he 
sees a iiioiverse cf order, and beauty, and joy, and life, of 
wliich he Lcc<>rT)93 a part, and he finds hims'^lf ciirried 
along in the eternal going on of nature. Snddon rtnd F.hnrt- 
lived passions of men take no hold upon hiv:i, for }j*^ has 
sat in holy thought by the roar and hurry of the stream, 
which has rushed en from the beginning cf things ; and 
he is quiet in ihe tumult of the muUitude, for he has watch- 
ed the tracery of leaves playing over the foam. 

The i.'inoceiit face of nature gives him an open and 
fair mina. Pain and death seem passing away, for ell 
about him is ch-.-erful and in its spring. His virtues are 
not taught bliu as le.ssons, but are shed upon liim, and enter 
into him, like the light and warmth of the sun. Amidst ail 
the variety of earth, he sees a fitness which frees hiir. 
from the formalities of rule, and lets him abroad to find a 
pleasure in all things, and order becomes a simple feeling 
of the soul. 

Religion to such a one has thoughts, and visions, and 
sensations, linged as it were with a holier and brighter 
light than faiis on other men. The love aiA xevr-reinje of 
the Creator make their abode in his imrigination, and he 
gathers about them the earth, and air, and idonl v/otlds 
Flis heart is made glad with the peifectness in the works 
of God, when he considers that even of the multitude of 
thjpgs that are growing up 7:.:::d docayin;::, aa-'l of that;? 



COMx\ION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 429 

which have come and gone, on which llie eye of man hus 
never rested, each was as fair and complete as if made to 
live forever for cur instruction and delight. 

Freedom, and order, and beauty, and grandeur, are ii 
accordance with his mind, and give largeness and lieight to 
h'.s thoughts,. — he moves amongst the bright clouds, he wan- 
ders away into the measureless depth of the stars, and is 
touched by the fire with which God has lighted them — all 
that is made partakes of the eternal, and religion become? 
a perpetual pleasure. 



Scene at JViagtra. — Miss Sedgwick. 

The vehement dashing of the rapids ; the sublime falls 
the various hues of the mass of waters ; the snowy white- 
ness and the deep bright green ; the billowy spray that 
veils in deep obscurity the depths below ; the verdant island 
that interposes between the two falls half veiled in a m.ist}'^ 
mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and 
the spiiit may repose on it ; the little island on the brink 
of the American fall, that looks, amidst the commotion of 
the waters, like the sylvan vessel of awoodland nymph gayly 
sailing onward, — or as if the wish of the Persian girl vv-ere 
realized, and the "little isle had wings," — a thing of life 
and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired. 

The profound caverns, with their overarcliing rocks ; tlie 
quiet habitations along the margin of the river, — peace- 
ful amid all the uproar, — as if the voice of the Creator 
had been heard, saying, " It is I ; be not afraid ;" the 
green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and 
overlooks Table Rock ; the deep and bright verdure of tb.c 
foliage — every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices 
of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and spark- 
ling in the sunbeams ; the rainbow that rests on the migh- 
ty torrent — a symbol of the smile of God upon his won- 
dious work. 

" What is it, mother ?" asked Edward, ag he stood with 
his friends on Table Rock, where they had remained 
gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minute? 



43C 



COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 



without uttering a syllable, " what is it, mother, that makes 
us all so silent''" 

"It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the wa- 
ters; it is this new revelation to our senses of his power 
and majesty, which ushers us, as it were, into his visi- 
ble presence, and exalts our affections aboye language. 
What, my dear cliildren, should we be, without the religious 
sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which v.e see, 
in all this beauty, the hand of the Creator ; by which we are 
permitted to join in the hymn of nature ; by which, I may 
say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? 
V/ithout it, we should be like those sheep, who are at this 
moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, 
alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their Divine 
Original. This religious sentiment is, in truth, Edv.-ard, 
that Promethean fire, that kindles nature with a living spir- 
it, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and in vetts 
the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was 
upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of 
devotion that harmonized with the scene. '' It is, my dear 
cliildren," she continued, '-'this religious sentiment, en- 
lightened and directed by reason, that allies you to exter- 
nal nature, that should govern your afi'ections, direct you' 
pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make yoa 
feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within 
you: but," she added, smiiing, after a momentary pause, 
*' this temple does not need a preacher." 



Procession of JVuns in a Catholic Hospital. — 
Miss Francis. 

It was autumn, — and the earth, as if weary of the van- 
ities of her children, was rapidly changing her varied and 
gorgeous drapery for robes as sad and unadorned as those of 
the cloister The tall and almost leafless trees stood amid 
black and mouldering stumps, like giants among the tomb' 
stones : the faint murmuring voice of the St. Lawrence was 
heard in the distance, and the winds rustled among the 
leaves, as if imitating the sound of its waters. 



COMMON-rLACE P.OOK OF TROSE. 43l 

The melancholy that we feel when gazing on natural 
rfccnes in the vigour of young existence, is but pleasure 
in a softened form. It has none of the bitterness, none 
of that soul-sickening sense of desolation, which visits us 
in our riper years, when we have had sad experience of 
tiic jarring interests, the selfish coldness, and the heartless 
caprice of the world. A rich imagination, like tlie trans- 
parent inai.ile of light, which the Flemish artists delight 
in throw around their pictures, gives its own glowing hues 
to the dreaiiness of winter and the sobriety of autumn, a3 
well as to the freshness of spring and the verdure of sum- 
mer ; and, if the affections are calm and pure, forests and 
sticams, sky and ocean, sunrise and twilight, Vv'ill always 
bring deep, serene, and holy associations. Under the in- 
tlucnce of such feelings, our young traveller entered Que- 
bec, just as the rays of the declining sun tinged the win- 
dows and spires with a liery beam, and fell obliquely or, 
the distant hilis in tranquil radiance. At the sign of St. 
f.icorge and the Dragon, the horse made a motion to pause ; 
and, thus reminded of the faithful creature's extreme fa- 
tigue, he threw the bridle over his neck, and gave him 
into the care of a ragged hostler, who in bad French de- 
manded his pleasure. In the same language his hostess 
gave her brief salutation, " A clever night to ride, please 
your honour." 

Pcrcival civilly replied to her courtesy, and gave orders 
for supper. The inn was unusually crowded and noisy ; and, 
willing to escape awhile from the bustling scene, he walk- 
ed out into the city. The loud ringing of the cathedral 
bell^, summoning the inhabitants to evening prayer, and the 
lolling of dr'.ims from the neighbouring garrison, were at 
variance vvith the quietude of his spiiit. He turned from 
the main street, and rambled along until he reached the banks 
of the little river St. Charles, about a mile v/estward from the 
tu.vn. He paused before the extensive and venerable- 
looking hospital, founded by M. de St. Valliere, the second 
bishop of Quebec. The high, steep roof, and the wide 
portals, beneath which various images of the saints wera 
safely ensconced in their respective niches, were indistinctly 
sefin in the dimness of twilight •, but a rich gusli of souiu' 



432 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

from the interior of the building poured on the ear, min- 
gling the deep tones of the organ with woman's sweetest 
melody. 

All that painting and music, pomp and pageantry, can do 
to dazzle the imagination and captivate the heart, has ever 
been employed by that tremendous hierarchy, " whose 
roots were in another world, and whose far-stretching 
shadow awed our own." At this time, the effect was in- 
creased by that sense of mystery so delightful to the hu- 
man soul. " Ora, ora pro nobis," was uttered by beings 
seclueed from the world, taking no part in the busy game 
3f life, and separated from all that awakens the tumult of 
passion and the eagerness of pursuit. How, then, could 
fancy paint them otherwise than lovely, placid and spotless .'' 
Had Percival been behind the curtain during these sancti- 
fied dramas, — had he ever searched out the indolence, the 
filth and the profligacy, secreted in such retreats, the spell 
that bound him would have been broken ; but it had been 
riveted by early association, and now rendered peculiarly 
delightful by the excited state of his feelings. Resigning 
himself entirely to its dominion, he inquired of one who 
stood within the door, whether it was possible for him to 
gain admittance. 

The man held out his hand for money, and^, having re- 
ceived a livre, answered, " Certainly, sir. You must be 
a stranger in Quebec, or you w^ould know that there is to 
be a procession of white nuns to-night, in honour of M. 
de St. Valliere." So saying, he led the way into the 
building. 

An old priest, exceedingly lazy in his manner, and mo- 
notonous in his tone, was reading mass, to which most of 
the audience zealously vociferated a response. 

An arch, ornamented with basso relievo figures of the 
saints en one side of the chancel, surmounted a door which 
apparently led to an interior chapel ; and beneath a similar 
one, on the opposite side, was a grated window shaded by a 
large, flowing curtain of black silk. 

Behind this provoking screen were the daughters of 
earth, whom our traveller supp.>sed to be as beavil.'f'vl a? 
mgels, and as pure. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 133 

For some time a faint response, a slight cough, or a aeep 
drawn sigh, alone indicated the vicinity of the seraphic 

beings. 

At length, however, the mass, with all its thousand cer- 
emonies, was concluded. There was silence for a momer*^ 
and then there was heard one of the low, thrilling chan^ 
of the church of Rome. 

There v/as the noise of light, sandalled feet. The mu- 
sic died away to a delicious warbhng, faint, yet earnest ; — 
then gradually rising to a bold, majestic burst of sound, the 
door on the opposite side opened, and the sisterhood entered 
amid a glare of light. 

That most of them were old and ugly passed unnoticed ; 
for Vv'hatever visions an enthusiastical imagination might 
have conjured up, were certainly realized by the figure 
that preceded the procession. 

Her forehead was pale and lofty, — her expression prour', 
but highl)^ intellectual. A white veil, carelessly pinned 
about her brow, fell over her shoulders in graceful drape- 
ry ; and, as she glided along, the loose, white robe, that 
constituted the uniform of her order, displayed to the utm(>st 
advantage that undulating outline of beauty, for which the 
statues of Psyche are so remarkable. 

A silver crucifix was clasped in her hands, and her eyes 
were steadily raised towards heaven ; yet there was some- 
thing in her general aspect, from which one would have 
concluded that the fair devotee had never knovv^n the world, 
rather than that she had left it in weariness or disgust. 
Her eye happened to glance on our young friend as she 
passed near him ; and he fancied it rested a moment with 
dclighred attentior. 

The procession moved slowly on in pairs, the apostles 
bearing waxen ligb<^s on either side, until the last white 
robe was concealed behind an arch at the other end of the 
extensive apartment. 

The receding sounds of " O sanctissima, purissiraa," 
floated on the air mingled with clouds of frankincense ; and 
the young man pressed his hand to his forehead with a be- 
wildered sensation, as if the airy phantoms of the inarric 
hatern had just been flitting before him. A notice troin 
37 



-i34 C050IOX-FLACE BOOK Of PROsa- 

iLe portsr, that the nuns were now at the altar performini 
silea^ mass, and that the doors were shortly to he closed, re 
ct'led his recollection. 



Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries. — Wiax. 

It was a pleasant evening in the month of May ; and 
my sweet child, my Rosalie, and I had sauntered up to the 
castle's top to enjoy the breeze that played around it, and 
to admire the unclouded firmament, that glowed and spar- 
kled with unusual lustre from pole to pole. The atmo=- 
phere was in its purest and finest state for vision ; Ihf 
Riilky way was distinctly developed throughout its whole 
exTeirt ; every planet and every star above the horizon, 
however near and brilliant or distant and faint, lent its laiy- 
bent light or twinkling ray to give variety and beauty to 
the hemisphere ; while the round, bright moon (so distincl- 
Iv defined were the lines of her figure, and so clearly vis- 
ible even the rotundity of her form) seemed to hang o-J 
frcm the azure vault, suspended in midway air ; or stoop- 
ing forward from the firmament her fair and radiant face, 
as if to court and return our gaze. 

Vr'e amused ourselves for some time, in observing through 
a telescope the planet Jupiter, saihng in silent majesty with 
his sq:iaJron of satellites along the vast ocean of space Le- 
--ween us and the fixed stars ; and admired the felicity cf 
that design, by which those distant bodies had been par- 
coiled cut and arranged into constellations : so as to have 
served not only for beacons to the ancient navigator, but, 
as it were, for landmarks to astronomers at this day ; ena- 
bling them, though in different countries, to indicate to 
£iicli other with ease the place and motion of those planets, 
comets and magnificent meteors, which inhabit, revolve, 
ani play in the intermediate space. 

We recalled and dwelt with delight on the rise and prog- 
rehs of the science of astronomy ; on that series of aston, 
ishiug discoveries through successive ages, which display- 
in so strong a light, the force and reach of the huma*. 
mind ■ and en those bold coniectures and sublime reveries. 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 435 

which seem to tower even to the confines of divinity, and 
denote the high destiny to which mortals tend •- — that 
thought, for iniitance, which is said to have been first start 
ed by Pythagoras, and which modern astronomers approve] 
that the stars which we call fixed, although they appear to 
us to be nothing more than large spangles of various sizes 
glittering on the sair.e concave surface, are, nevertheless, 
bodies as large as our sun, shini:ig,, like him, with original 
and not reflected light, placed at incalculable distances 
asunder, and each star the solar centre of a system of plan- 
ets, which revolve around it as the planets belonging to our 
system do around the sun ; that this is not only the case 
with all the stars which our eyes discern in the firmament, 

which the telescope has brought within the sphere of 
our vision, but, according to the modern improvements of 
this thought, that there are probably other stars, whose 
light has not yet reached us, although light moves with a 
velocity a million times greater than that of a cannon ball ; 
tliat those luminous appearances, which we observe in the 
firmament, like flakes of thin, white cloud, are windows, as 
it were, which open to other firmaments, far, far beyond the 
kenof human eye, or the power of optical instruments, lighted 
up, like ours, waih hosts of stars or suns ; that this scheme 
goes on through infinite space, which is filled with thou- 
sands upon thousands of those suns, attended by ten thou- 
sand times ten thousand worlds, all in rapid motion, yet 
calm, regular and harmonious, invariably keeping the paths 
prescribed to them ; and these worlds peopled with myri- 
ads of intelligent beings. 

One would think that this conception, thus extended, 
would be bold enough to satisfy the whole enterprise of 
the human imagination. But what an accession of glory 
and magnificence does Dr. Herschell superadd to it, u'hen, 
instead of supposing all those suns fixed, and the motion 
confined to their respective planets, he loosens those multi- 
tudinous suns themselves from their stations, sets them all 
into motion with their splendid retinvio of planets and sat- 
elhtes, and imagines them, thus r.ttended, to perform a stu- 
pendous revolution, system above system, around some 
e;rander, unknown centre, somewhere in the boundlass abyss 
■A space! — and when, carrying on the process, you su? 



** 436 COMMCiN-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE, 

pose even that centre itself not stationary, but also coun- 
terpoised by other masses in the immensity of spaces, witlj 
which, attended by their accumulated ti-ains of 

" Planets, suns, and adamantine spheres 
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense," 

it maintains harmonious concert, surrounding, in its vast 
career, some other centre still more remote and stupendous, 
which in its turn " You overwhelm me," cried Rosa- 
lie, as 1 was labouring to pursue the immense concatena- 
tion ; — " my mind is bewildered and lost in the effort to 
follow you, and finds no point on which to rest its weary 
wing." — " Yet there is a point, my dear Rosalie — the throne 
of the Most High. Imagine that the ultimate centre, tc 
which this vast and inconceivably magnificent and aug\ist 
apparatus is attached, and around .v/bich it is continually 
revolving. Oh ! what a spectacle for the cherubim and ser- 
aphim, and the spirits of the just made perfect, who dwell 
on the right hand of that throne, if, as may be, and proba- 
bly is, the case, their eyes are permitted to pierce through 
the whole, and take in, at one glance, all its order, beau« 
ty, sublimity and glory, and their ears to distinguish that 
celestial harmony, unheard by us, in which those va? globes, 
as they roll on in their respective orbits, continual' , hymn 
their great Creator's praise !" 



Scenes on the Prairies. — Anonymous. 

On ;hese level plains some of my dreams of the pleas- 
ures of wandering were realized. We were all in the 
:norning of life, full of health and spirits, on horseback 
and breathing a most salubrious air, with a boundless hori 
zon open before us, and, shaping our future fortune and 
success in the elastic mould of youthful hope and imagina- 
tion we could hardly be other than happy. Sometimes 
we saw, scouring away frcm our path, horses, asses, mules, 
buffaloes and wolves, in countless multitudes, and we took, 
almost with too much ease to give pleasure in the chase, 
whatever we needed for luxurious subsistence. The pas- 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 437 

E-vige of creeks and brooks across the prairies is marked, tc 
tlie utmost extent of vision, by a fringe of woods and count- 
less flowerina; shrubs. Sometimes we ascended an elevation 
of some height, swelling gently from "the plain. Here the 
eye traces, as en ?.n immense map, the formation and grad- 
ual enlavgemeiit of these rivulets, and sees them curving 
their meandering lines to a point of union with another of 
the same kind. The broadened fringe of wood indicates 
the enlargement cf the stream, and the eye takes in at one 
glance the gradual formation of rivers. The night biought 
us up on the edge of one of these streams. Our beasts 
are tujned loose to stretch themselves on the sliort and 
tender grass to feed and repose.' The riders collect round 
a fire in the centre. Supper is prepared with bread, cofibe, 
and the tenderest parts of the buffalo, venison and other 
game. The appetite, sharpened by exercise on horseback 
and by the salubrious air, is devouring. The story circu- 
lates. Past adventures are recounted, and if they receive 
something of the colouring of romance, it may be traced 
to feelings that grow out of the occasion. The projects 
and the mode of joui^neying on the morrow are discussed 
and settled. The fire flickers in the midst. The wild 
horses neigh, and tlie prairie w^olves howl in the distance 
Except the weather threatens storm, the tents are not 
pitched The temperature of the night air is botli saluta- 
ry and delightful. The blanket? are spread upon the ten- 
der grass, and under a canopy of the softest blue, decked 
with all the visible lights of the sky. The party sink to a 
repose, which the exercise of the preceding day renders 
as unbroken and dreamless as that of the grave. I awoke 
more than once unconscious that a moment had elapsed be- 
tween the time of my lying down and my rising. 

The day before we came in view of the Rocky Moun 
tains, I saw, in the greatest perfection, that impressive, 
and to me almost sublime spectacle, an immense drove of 
wilvl horses, for a long time hovering round our path across 
the prairies. I had often seen great numbers of them be 
fore, mixed with other animals, apparently quiet, and graz 
ing like the rest. Here there were thousands, unmixed, 
unemployed ; their motions, if such a comparison might be 
allowed, as darting and as wild as those of humming-birdj 



4Scs CCjiblv.N-i'LACi: LOOK OF PR-OSit 

Ki the L.C frers. The tremendous snorts, wilJi wiiich d'# 
front colurans of the phalanx made known Uieir approach 
to u£, seemed to be their wild and energetic way cf ex- 
pressing their pity and disdain for the servjle lot of onr 
Lorses, of which they appeared to be taking a surrey. They 
were of all colours, 'uixed, spotted and diver>llied with 
every hue, from the brightest white to clear and shining 
blao's ; and of every form and structure, from the long and 
Blender racer to those of firmer limbs and heavier mculd , 
a^d of all agesj from the curvetting colt to the range of 
patriarchal steeds, drawn up in a line, and holding their 
high heads for a survey of us in the rear. Sometinies they 
curved their necks, and made no more progress than jusl 
enough to kee-p pace with our advance. There was a kind 
of slow and walking minuet, in which they performed va- 
rious evolutions with the precision of the figures of a coun- 
try dance. Then a rapid movement shifted the front tc 
the rear. But still, in all their evolutions and movements, 
like the Sight of sea-fowl, their lines were regular, and free 
from all indications of confusion. At times a spontaneous 
and sudden moveraent towards us almost inspired the ap- 
prehension of a united attack upon us. Afcer a moment's 
advance, a snort and a rapid retrograde movement seemed 
to testify their proud estimate of their wild independence. 
The infinite variet>^ of their rapid movements, their tam- 
perings and mancsuvres, were of such a wild and almost 
terrific character, that it required but a moderate stretch 
of fancy to suppose them the genii of these grassy plains. 
At one period tliey were formed to an immense depth in 
front of us. A wheel, executed almost with the rapiditv' 
of thought, presented them hoverins on onr flanks. Then 
again, the cloud of Just that enveloped their movement* 
cleared away, and presented them in our rear. They evi- 
dently operated as a great annoyance to the horses ani 
mules of our cavalcade. The frighted movements, the in- 
creased indications of fatigue, with their frequent neighiags 
i«if5cientlv evidenced what unpleasant neighbours they 
sonsidered their wild compatriots to be. So much ^ad our 
horses appear to suffer from fatigue and terror la csnse' 
5«ence of their vicinity, that we were thinking of some 
Tay in which to drive them off; when, on a snddej ^ a pa 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 43$ 

Cient and laborious dcukey of the. ^establishment, who ap- 
peared to liave regarded all their movements with philo- 
sophic indifference, pricked up his long ears, and gave a 
/oud and most sonorous bray from his vocal shells. Instant- 
ly this prodigious multitude — and there were thousands of 
them — took what the Spanish call the " stompado." With 
a trampling like the noise of thunder, or still more like that 
of an earthquake, — a noise that was absolutely appalling, — 
they took to their heels, and were all in a few moments 
invisible in the verdant depths of the plains, and we sa\? 
them no more. 



Eulogy on William Penn. — Du Ponceatj. 

William Pe]vi«- stands the first among the lawgivers, 
whose names and deeds are recorded in history. Shall we 
compare him with Lycurgus, Solon, Romulus, those foun- 
ders of military commonwealths, who organized their citizen 
in dreadful array against the rest of their species, taught 
them to consider (heir fellow-men as barbarians, and them- 
selves as alone worthy to rule over the earth ? What benefit 
did mankind derive from their boasted institutions ? Inter- 
rogate the shades of those who fell in thew mighty contests 
between Athens and Lacedsmon, between Carthage and 
Rome, and between Rome and the rest of the universe. 
But see William Penn, with weaponless hand, sitting down 
peaceably with his followers in the midst of savage nations, 
whose only occuiration was shedding the blood of their 
fellow-men, disarming them by his justice, and teaching 
them, for the first time, to view a stranger without distrust. 
See them bury their tomahawks, in his presence, so dee'- 
that man shall never be able to find them again. See them, 
under the shade of the thick groves of Coaquannock, extend 
liie bright chain of friendship, and solemnly promise to 
preserve it as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Sec 
him then, with his companions, establishing his common- 
wealth on the sole basis ot religion, morality and universal 
jve, and adopting, as the fundamental maxim of his gov- 
nment, the rule handed down to us from neavcn, Glor% 



440 COMMON-PLACF. BOOK OP PUOSF. 

to God on high, and on eartli pence txnd k:.6'.J ri?' ia 
men. flere was a spectacle for the potentct's v;- tiie ea.rib 
to look upon, — an example for them to imitate. But the po 
tentatcs of the earth did not see, or, if they saw, they turn 
i^d away their eyes from the sight : they did not hear, cr, 
if they heard, they shut their ears against the voice which 
called out to them from the wilderness, 

" Discite justitiam moniti, et non temnere Divos." 

The character of William Penn alone sheds a never-fad 
ing lustre on our history. 



Morbid Effects of Envy, Malice, and Hatred. — 
Rush. 

Envy is commonly the parent of malice and hatred. Of 
this vice it* may be truly asserted, that it is deep-seated^ 
and always painful ; hence it has been said by an inspired 
writer to resemble " rottenness in the bones ;" and by Lord 
Bacon " to know no holydays." It is likewise a monopo- 
lizing vice. Alexander envied his successful generals, 
and Garrick was hostile to all the popular players of his 
day. It is moreover a parricide vice, for it not only emits 
its poison against its friends, but against the persons, who, 
by the favours it has conferred upon those who cherish it, 
have become in one respect the authors of their being ; and, 
lastly, it possesses a polypus life. No kindness, gentleness 
or generosity can destroy it. On the contrary, it derives 
fresh strength from every act which it experiences of any 
of them. It likewise survives and often forgives the re- 
sentment it sometimes occasions, but without ceasing to 
hate the talents, virtues or personal endowments by which 
it was originally excited. Nor is it satiated by the appa- 
rent extinction of them in death. This is obvious from ita 
so frequently opening the sanctuary of the grave, and rob- 
bing the possessors of those qualities of the slender re- 
mains it had left them of posthumous fame. 

However devoid this vice and its offspring may be of re^ 
mistuons, they now and then appear in the form of paro« 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FRC;SE. 441 

ysms, which discover themselves in tremors, paleness and 
a sufifusion of the face with red blood. The face in thi? 
case performs the vicarious office, which has lately beei: 
ascribed to the spleen. But their effects appear more fre- 
quentlj' in slow fevers, and in a long train of nervous dis- 
eases. Persons affected with them seldom acknowledge 
their true cause. A single instance, only, of this candour, 
is mentioned by Dr. Tissot He tells us he was once con- 
sulted by a gentleman, who told him that all his complaints 
were brought on by his intense and habitual hatred of an 
enemy. Many of the chronic diseases of high life and 
of professional men, I have no doubt, are induced by the 
same cause. 

I once thought that medicine had not a single remedy 
a all its stores, that could subdue, or even palliate, the dis- 
eases induced by the baneful passions which have been 
described, and that an antidote to them was to be found 
only in rehgion ; but I have since recollected one, and 
heard of another physical remedy, that will at least palliate 
them. The first is, frequent convivial society between 
persons who are hostile to each other. It never fails to 
soften resentments, and sometimes produces reconciliation 
and friendship. The reader will be surprised when 1 add 
that the second physical remedy was suggested to me by a 
madman in the Pennsylvania hospital. In conversing with 
him, lie produced a large collection of papers, which he 
said contained his journal. " Here," said he, " I write 
down every thing that passes in my mind, and particularly 
malice and revenge. In recording the latter, I feel my 
miud emptied of something disagreeable to it, just as an 
cpaetic relieves the stomach of bile. When I look at what 
I have written a day or two afterwards, I feel ashamed and 
diigusted with it, and wish to throw it into the fire." I 
have no doubt of the utility of this remedy for envy, malice 
and hatred, from its salutary effects in a similar case. A 
Gentleman m this city informed me, that, after writing an 
attack for the press upon a person who had offended him; 
1.3 was sc struck with its malignity upon reading it»., that 
he instantly destroyed it. The French ncbility som^ffmes 
cover the v/alls and ceiling of a room in their houses 
with looking giaases The room thus furnished is called 



4i2 CO:. 131 OX-PLACE BOL>K OF PROSE. 

a ho-utJ-oir. Did ill-natured people imitate tlie practic* 
of the madinaa and gentleman I have mentioned, by put- 
ting their envious, malicious and revengeful thoughts upoa 
paper, it would form a mirror that would serve the saiiie 
purpose of pointing out and remedying the evil dispositions 
of the mind, that the boudoir in France serves, in discov- 
ering and remedying the defects in the attitudes and dress 
of the body. 

To persons who are not ashamed and disgusted with the 
first sight of their malevolent effusions upon paper, the 
same advice may be given that Dr. Franklin gave to a gen- 
tleman, who read part of a humorous satire which he had 
written upon the person and character of a respectable cit 
izen of Philadelphia. After he had finished reading it, he 
asked the doctor what he thought of his publishing it. 
" Keep it by you," said the doctor, " for one year, and tiien 
ask me that question." The gentleman felt tlie force of 
this answer, went immediately to the printer who had com- 
posed the first page of it, took it from him, and consigneo 
*be whole manuscript to oblivion. 



Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrims. — 
Miss Sedgwick. 

Tsi: first settlers followed the course of the Indians, 
and planted themselves on the borders of rivers, — the nat- 
ural gardens ot the earth, where the soil is mellowed and 
enriched by the annual overflowing of the streams, and 
prepared by the unassisted processes of nature to yield to 
the indolent Indian his scanty supply of maize and othpr 
esculents. The wigwam:« which constituted the village, 
or, to use the graphic aboriginal designation, the " smoke,' 
of the natives, gave place to the clumsy, but more ccnve- 
nient dwellings of the pilgrims. 

Where there are now contiguous rows of shops, filled 
with the merchandise of the East, the manufactures of Eu- 
rope, the rival fabrics of our own country, and the fruits 
of the tropics : where now stand the stately hall of justice, 
^e academy, the tank, church iS, orthodox and heretic, anv 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. 443 

Vil the symbols of a rich and populous community, — were, 
flt the early period of our history, a few log-houses p anteo 
around a fort, defended by a slight embankment and pal- 
isade. 

The mansions of the proprietors were rather more spa« 
clous and artificial than those of their more humble associ- 
ates, and were built on the well known mofiel of the modest 
dweriing-house illustrated by the birth of Milton — a form 
still aooimding in the eastern parts of Massachusetk., and 
presenting to the eye of a New Englander the familiar as- 
pect ot an awkward, friendly country cousin. 

The first clearing was limited to the plain. The beau 
tiful hill, that is now the residence of the gentry, (for 
there yet lives such a class in the heart of our democratic 
community,) and is embellished with stately edifices and 
expensive pleasure-grounds, was then the border of a 
dense forest, and so richly fringed with the original growth 
01 trees, that scarce a sunbeam had penetrated to the parent 
earth 

Mr Fletcher was at first welcomed as an important ac- 
quisition to the infant establishment, but he soon proved 
that he purposed to take no part in its concerns, and, in spite 
of the remonstrances of the proprietors, he fixed iiis resi- 
dence a mile from the village, deeming exposure to the 
incursions of the savages very sliglit, and the surveillance 
of an inquiring neighbourhood a certain evil. His domain 
extended from a gentle eminence, that commanded an exten- 
sive view of the bountiful Connecticut to the shore, where 
the river indented the meadow by one of those sweeping, 
graceful curves, by which it seems to delight to beautify 
the land it nourishes. 

The border of the river was fringed with all the v/ater- 
loving ':rees; but the broad meadows were quite cleared, 
excepting tliat a few elms and sycamores had been spared 
by the Indians, and consecrated by tradition, as the scene 
of revel? or councils. The house of our pilgrim was a 
low-ro)fed, modest structure, containing ample accommo- 
dation for a patriarchal family ; where children, depen- 
ents and servants were all to be sheltered under one roof- 

ee. On one side, as we have described, lay an open and 
» -.t.'^nsive plain; wvt^'n view was the curling smoke froia 



i44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF P&0^£. 

die little cluster of houses about the fort — the h^aitar j& 
of civilized man ; bat all else was a savage, howling wil 

deraess. 

Never was a name more befitting the condition of a peo- 
ple, than " pilgrim" that of our forefathers. It should be 
redeemed from the Puritanical and ludicrous a5sociatit.nj 
which have degraded it in most men's minds, and be hii- 
?owed ty the sacrLSces made by these volantary exil-.'S. 
They were pilgrims, for they had resigned forever wLa? 
the good hold most dear — their homes. Home can ne\ er 
be transferred ; never repeated in the experience of an in- 
dividual. The place consecrated by parental love, by the 
innocence and sports of childhood, by the iirst acquaintance 
with nature, by the linking of the heart to the visible cre- 
ation, is the only home. There, there is a living and a 
breathing spirit infused into nature : every familiar object has 
a history — the trees have tongues, and the very air is vocal. 
There the vesture of decay doth not close in and control 
the noble functions of the soul. It sees, and hears, and 
enjoys, without the ministry of gross, material substance 



Description of a Herd of Bisons. — Cooper. 

" Thehe come the buffaloes themselves, and a noble 
herd it is. I warrant me that Pawnee has a troop of his 
people in some of the hd" ^ws nigh by ; and, as he has 
gone scampering after them, you are about to see a glori- 
ous chase. It will serve to keep the squatter and his brood 
under cover, and for ourselves there is little reason to fear. 
A Pawnee is not apt to be a malicious savage." 

Every eye was now drawn to the striking spectacle that 
succeeded. Even the timid Inez hastened to the side of 
Middleton to gaze at the sight, and Paul summoned Ellen 
from her culinary labours, to become a witness of the live- 
ly scene. 

Throughout the whole of these movins: events which it 
has been our duty to record, the pmries had lain in all the 
majesty of perfect solitu,!e. The heavens had been black- 
ened with the pa-"?,ige of the migratory b'rds, it is true^ 



COMMOx\-rLx\CE BOOK OF PROSE. 445 

bnt the dogs of the party and the ass of the doctcr were 
the only quadrupeds that had enUvened the broad surface 
of the waste beneath. There was now a sudden exhibition 
of animal life, which changed the scene, as it were by 
magic, to the very opposite extreme. 

A few enormous bison bulls were first observed scouring 
along the most distant roll of the prairie, and then suc- 
ceeded long files of single beasts, which, in their turns, 
were followed by a dark mass of bodies, until the dun- 
coloured herbage of the plain was ent rely lost jn the deep- 
er hue of their shaggy coats. The herd, as the column 
spread and thickened", was like the ondless flocks of the 
smaller birds, whose extended flanks are so often seen to 
heave up out of the abyss of the heavens, until they ap 
pear as countless as the leaves in those forests, over which 
Ihcy wing their endless flight. Clouds of dust shot up in 
lit<^le columns from the centre of the mass, as some anima'i 
more furious than the rest ploughed the plain with his 
horns, and, from time to time, a deep, hollow bellowing 
was borne along on the wind, as though a thousand throats 
vented their plaints in a discordant murmuring. 

A long and musing silence reigned in the party, as they 
gazed on this spectacle of wild and peculiar grandeur. It 
was at length broken h-y he trapper, who, having been long 
accustomed to similar sights, felt less of its influence, or 
rath'^r felt it in a less thrilling and absorbing manner, than 
those io whom the scene v/as more novel. 

" There go ten thousand oxen in one drove, without 
keeper or master, except Him who made chem, and gave 
them these open plains for their pasture ! Ay, it is here 
that man may see the proofs of his wantonness and folly I 
Can the proudest governor in all the States go irdo his 
fields, and slaughter a nobler bullock than is here offered 
to the meanest hands ? and, when he has gotten his sirloin 
or his steak, can he eat it with as good a relish as he who 
nas s veetened his food with wholesome toil, and earned it 
according to the law "^f natur', by honestly mastering thai 
which the Lord hath put before him ?" 

" If the prairie platter is smoking with a buffaloe's hump, 
answer, no," interrupted th:^ luxurious bee-hunter. 
38 



i46 C03dOX PLACE B '->.)£ OF FSOSE. 

** Ay, boy, yoa have tasted, and- you feel the genrase 
nafoning of the thing. Bat the herd is Leading a httle 
this-a-way, and it behooTes os to make ready for their viMt. 
If we hide oorselTes, alti^tfaer, the homed brutes will 
break throii^ the place, and trample as beneath their feet, 
like so many creei»ng wt^ms ; so we will jast put the 
weak ones apart, and take post, as becomes men and hunt- 
ers, in the van." 

As there was bat little time to make the nece^ary ai 
rangements,the whole party set about them in good earnest. 
Inez and Ellen were placed in the edge of the thicket on 
the side (arthest from the approaching herd. Asinus was 
posted in the centre, in consideration of his nerves, and 
then the old man, with his three male companions, divided 
themselves in such a naanner as they thought would enable 
them to torn the head of the rushing column, should it 
chance *o approach too nigh their portion. By flie vacil- 
iating movements of some fifty or a huadred bulls, that led 
the advance, it remained questionable, for many moments, 
what course they intended to pursue. But a tremendous 
and painful roar, which came from behind the cloud ot dust 
Oiat rose in tibe centre oi the herd, and which was horridly 
answered by the screams of the carrion birds, that were 
greedily sailing directly above th*^ Sying drove, ap}.^ai€d 
to give a new impulse to their flight, and attmce to remo^'e 
every symptom of indecision. As if glad to seek die small- 
est signs of the forest, the whole of the afSighted herd 
became steady in its direction, rushing in a straight line 
toward the little cover of bushes, which hcs already been 
so ofllen named. 

The appearance oi danger was now, in reality, of a 
character to try the stouts nerves. The flanks of the 
dark, moving mass, were advanced in such a manner as to 
make a cimcave line of the front, and every fierce eye, 
that was glaring from the shaggy wilderness of hair, in 
which the entire heads of the males were enveloped, was 
riveted with mad anxiety tm die thicket. It seemed as ii 
each beast strove to outstrip his neigbbour in gair.'ag this 
desired cover, and as thousands in dte rear pressed bundly 
on diose in fitmt, there was die appearance of an immineEi: 
■^r that the leaders of the herd would be precipitated cm th« 



COMJION-PLACE BOOK OF TUOSE. 44? 

ronct'ucri parU-, 'n which case the destruction of everj 
one of them was certain. Each of cur adventurers felt the 
danger of his s'tuation in a manner peculiar to his individ- 
ual character and circumstances. 



The old man, who had stood all this while leaning on his 
rifle, and regarding the movements of the herd with a 
oteady eye, now deemed it flime to strike his blow. Lev- 
elling his piece at the foremost bull, with an agility that 
would have done credit to his youth, he fired. The ani- 
mal received the bullet on the matted hair between his 
iiorns, and fell to his knees ; but, shaking his head, he in- 
stantly arose, the very shock seeming to increase his exer- 
tions. There was now no longer time to hesitate. Throw- 
ng down his rifle, the trapper stretched forth his arms, and 
advanced from the cover with naked hands, directly towards 
he rushing column of the beasts. 

The figure of a man, when sustained by the firmness 
and steadiness that intellect can only impart, rarely fails 
of commanding respect from all the inferior animals of the 
creation. The leading bulls recoiled, and, for a single in- 
stant, there was a sudden stop to their speed, a dense mass 
of bodies rolling up in front, until hundreds were seen 
floundering and tumbling on the plain. Then came another 
of those hollow hello wings from the rear, and set the herd 
again in motion. The head of the column, however, di- 
vided ; the immoveable form of the trapper cutting it, 
as it were, into two gliding streams of life. Middleton 
and Paul instantly profited by his example, and extended 
the feeble barrier by a similar exhibition of their own per- 
iions. 

For a few moments, the new impulse given to the ani- 
mals in front served to protect the thicket. But, as the 
bo.dy of the herd pressed more and more upon the open line 
of its defenders, and the dust thickened so as to obscure 
their persons, there was, at each instant, a renewed danger 
of the beasts breaking through. It became necessary for 
the trapper and his companions to become still more and 
more alert ; and they were gradually yielding before the 
oeadlong multitude, when a furious lull darted by M'i 



443 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

dleton, so near as to brush his person, and, at ths nexi 
instant, swept through the thicket with the velocity of the 
fvind. 

" Close, and die for the ground," shouted the old man, 
' or sl thousand of the devils will be at his heels !" 

All their efforts would have proved fruitless, however, 
'gainst the living torrent, had not Asiuus, whose domains 
jad just been so rudely entered, lifted his voice in the midst 
»f the uproar. The most sturdy and furious of the bulls 
trembled at the alarming and unknown cry, and then each- 
individual brute was seen m.adly pressing from that very 
thicket, which, the moment before, he had endeavoured to 
reach with the same sort of eagerness as that with which 
the murderer seeks the sanctuary. 

As the stream divided, the place became clear ; the two 
dark columns moving obliquely from the copse to unite 
again at the distance of a mile on its opposite side. The 
instant the old man saw the sudden effect which the voice 
of Asinus had produced, he coolly commenced reloading 
his rifle, indulging, at the same time, in a most heartfelt fit 
of his silent and peculiar merriment. 



The uproar, which attended the passage of the herd, waa 
now gone, or rather it was heard rolling along the prairie, 
at the distance of a mile. The clouds of dust were already 
blown away by the wind, and a clear range was left to the 
eye, in that place where, ten minutes before, there existed 
such a strange scene of wildness and confusion. 



The Character of Jesus. — Rev. S. C. Thacher, 

"We find in the life of Jesus a union of qualities, which 
bad never before met in any being on this earth. We find 
imbodied in his example the highest virtues both of active 
and of contemplative life. We see united in him a devo- 
tion to God the most intense, abstracted, unearthly, with 
a. benevolence to man the most active, affectionate and uni- 
fersal. We see qualities meet and harmonize in his char- 



co:vi:»'L'>rv-!*i.ACE book of piiosp.. ^il9 

trier , vvlu'-li nre usually thouo-ht the most un(,ongenial 
We sec a force of character, which difficulties cannot con- 
quer, an energy which calamity cannot relax, a fortitude 
and constancy v/hich sufferings can neither subdue nor 
bend from their purpose ; connected with the most meltiig 
tenderness and sensibility of spirit, the most exquisite sua- 
c-eptibility to every soft and gentle impression. We see in 
him the rare union of zeal and moderation, of courage and 
p'-udence, of compassion and firmness ; we see superiority 
to tlie world without gloom or severity, or indifierenoe or 
distaste to its pursuits and enjoyments. In short, there is 
something in the whole corception and tensr of our Sa- 
viour's character so entirely peculiar, something which so 
-ealizes the ideal model of the most consummate moral 
De.iuty; something so lovely, so gracious, so venerable and 
commanding, that the boldest infidels have shrunk from it 
overawed, and, though their cause is otherv/ise desperate, 
ha\e 3^et feared to profane its perfect purity. One of the 
most eloquent tributes to its sublimity, that was ever utter- 
ed, was extorted from the lips of an infidel. " Is there 
any thing in it," he exclaims, " of the tone of an enthusi- 
ast, or of an ambitious sectary ? What sweetness, what 
purity in his manners ; what touching grace in his instruc- 
tions ; what elevation in his maxims ; what profound wis- 
dom in his discourses ; what presence of mind, vvhat skill 
and propriety in his answers ; w^hat empire over his pas- 
sions ! Where is the man, where is the sage, who knoAvs 
how to act, to suffer and to die, without weakness and with- 
out ostentation ? When Plato paints his imaginary just 
man covered with all the ignominy of crime, and yet wor 
thy of all the honours of virtue, he paints in every featui 
the character of Christ. What prejudice, what blindness 
must possess us to compare the son of Soproniscus to the 
Eon of Mary ! How vast the distance between them . 
Socrates, dying w'ithout pain and without ignominy, easily 
sustains his character to the last ; and. if this gentle death 
had not honoured his life, we might have doubted whether 
Socrates, with all his genius, was any thing more than a 
sophist. The death of Socrates, philosophizing tranquilly 
vyith his friends, is the most easy that one could desire ; 
hiii of Jesus, exoir.ng in torture, insulted, mocked, exe- 
33* ' 



1.50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

riraied oj a whole people. Is the it- =^t horriMe that one caa 
ear. Socrates, Then he takes the puisoned cup, blesae^ 
him who weeps as he presents it; Jesus, in the midst of 
Ihe most dreadful tortures, pray.-: for h.c infuriated execu- 
tioners. — Yes ! if the life and death of Socrates are those 
af a sage, the li-fe and deaJi of Jesus are wholly divine " 



Recollections of Josiah Quincy, Jun — J, QaixcY. 

By the lapse of half a century, the actors m the scenes 
immediately preceding the American revolution begin to 
be placed in a light, and at a listance, favourable at once 
to right feelings and just criticism. In the possession of 
freedom, happiness, and prosperity, seldom if ever before 
equalled in the history cf nations, the hearts of the Amer- 
ican people naturally turn towards the memories of those, 
who, under Providence, were the instruments of obtaining 
these blessings. Curiosity awakens concerning thpir char- 
acters and motives. The desire grows daily more univer- 
sal to repay, with a late and distant gratitude, their long 
neglected and oftea forgotten sacrifices and sufferings. 

Among the men, whose character and political conduct 
had an acknowledged influence en the events of that peri- 
od, was Josiah Quincy, Jun. The unanimous consent of 
his contemporaries has associated his name in an imperish- 
able union with that of Otis, Adams, Hancock, Warren, 
and other distinguished men, whose talents and intrepidity 
influenced the events which led to the declaration of inde- 
pendence. This honour has been granted to him, notwith- 
standing his political path was, in every period of its short 
extent, interrupted by intense professional labours, and 
was terminated by death at the early age of thirty-one 
years. 

The particular features of a hfc and character, capable. 

! under such circumstances, of attaining so great a distinction, 

I ire objects of curiosity and interest. Those, who recollect 

0im, speak of his eloquence, his genius, and his capicity 

'or ntellectual labour ; of the inextinguishable zeal and 

; t)sorbing ardour of his exertions, whether directed to pa- 



COxMM.>;-rLACE UOOK OF TROSE 45! 

lltical or ptofebit-cnal objects ; of the entlreness with which 
he threw his soul into every cause in which he engaged ; 
of the intrepidity of liis spirit, and of his indignant senss 
of the wrongs of his country. 

It is certain that he made a deep impression on hi& con- 
temporaries. Tliose w^ho remember the pohtical debates 
iu Faneuil Hall consequent on the stamp act, the Boston 
massacre, and the Boston port bill, have yet a vivid recol- 

ectiou of the pathos of his eloquence, the boldness of his 
mvectives, and the impressive vehemence with w^hich he 
arraigned the measures of the British ministry, inflaming 

he zeal and animating the resentment of an oppressed 
people. 



The true Pride of Ancestry. — Webster. 

It is a noble faculty of our nature, which enables us to 
connect our thoughts, our sympathies, and our happiness, 
with what is distant in place or time ; and, looking before 
and after, to hold communion at once with our ancestors and 
our posterity. Human and mortal although we are, we are, 
nevertheless, not mere insulated beings, without relation to 
the past or the future. Neither the point of time-nor the spot 
of earth, in which we physically live, bounds our rational 
and intellectual enjoyments. We live in the past by a 
knowledge of its history, and in the future by hope and 
anticipation. By ascending to an association with our an- 
cestors ; by contemplating their example and studying their 
character; by partaking their sentiments, and imbibing their 
spirit i by accompanying them in their toils ; by sympathiz- 
ing in their sufferings, and rejoicing in their successes and 
their triumphs, — we mingle our own existence with theirs, 
and se8m to belong to their age. We become their con- 
temporaries, live the lives which they lived, endure what 
they endured, and partake in the rewards which they en- 
joyed. And in like manner, by running along the line of 
future time ; by contemplating the probable fortunes of 
hose who are coming after us ; by attempting something 
wKicti may promote their happiness, and leave some not 



52 COilMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSJ.. 

dishonourable memorial of ourselves for their regard Tvhen 
we shall sleep with the fathers, — we protract our own eanh- 
ly being, and seem to crowd whatever is future, as well a3 
ail that is past, into the narrow compass of our earthly ex- 
istence. As it is not a vain and false, but an exalted and 
religious imagination, which leads us to raise our thought* 
from the orb which, amidst this universe of worlds, the 
Creator has given us to inhabit, and to send them with 
something of the feeling which nature prompts, and teach- 
es to be proper among children of the same Eternal Parent, 
to the contemplation of the myriads of fellow-beings, with 
which his goodness has peopled the infinite of space ; so 
neither is it false or vain to consider ourselves as interested 
or connected with our whole race through all time ; allied 
to our ancestors ; allied to our posterity ; closely compacted 
on all sides with others •, oarselves being but links in the 
great chain of being, which begins with the origin of our 
race, runs onward through its successive generation^, bind- 
ing together the past, the present, and the future, and ter- 
minating, at last, with the consummation of all things 
earthly, at the throne of God. 

There may be,, and there often is, indeed, a regard for 
ancestry, which nourishes only a weak pride ; as there is 
also a care for posterity, which only disguises an habitual 
avarice, or hides the workings of a low and grovelling van- 
ity. But there is, also, a moral and philosophical respect 
for our ancestors, which elevates the character and im- 
proves the heart. Next to the sense of reUgious dut\' 
and moral feeling, I hardly know what should bear with 
stronger obligation on a liberal and enlightened mind, than 
a consciousness of alliance with excellence which is de- 
parted; and a consciousness, too, that, in its acts and conduct, 
and even in its sentiments, it may be actively operating on 
the happiness of those who come after it. Poetry is found 
to have {e\* stronger conceptions, by which it would affect 
or overwneim the minJ, than those in which it presents 
the moving and speakino: image of the departed dead to the 
senses of the living. This belongs to poetry only because 
it is congenial to our nature. Poetry is. in this respect, 
but the handmaid of true philosophy and morahty. It dealj 
with us as human beings, naturally reverencing these 



CO3IM0N-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 453 

whose visible connexion with this state of being is sevcved 
and who may yet exercise, we know not what sympathy with 
ourselves ; — and when it carries us forward, also, and showa 
us the long-continued result of all the good we do, in the 
prosperity of those who follow us, till it bears us from our- 
se'ves, and absorbs us in an intense interest for what shall 
happen to the generations after us, it speaks only in the 
language of our nature, and affects us with sentiments 
which belong to us as human beings. 



Jl Slide in the White Mountains. — Mrs. Hale. 

Robert looked upward. Av/ful precipices, to the height 
of more than tv*'o thousand feet, rose above him. Near 
the highest pinnacle, and the very one over which Abairo- 
cho had been seated, the earth had been loosened by t^e 
violent rains. Some slight cause, perhaps the sudder. bur'^'- 
iug forth of a mountain spring, had given motion to the mas^ ; 
and it was now moving forward, gathering fresh streng' 6 
from its progress, uprooting the old trees, unbedding the 
ancient rocks, and all rolling onwards with a force f.nd ve- 
locity no human barrier could oppose, no created power 
resist. One glance told Robert that Mary must perish ; 
that he cop.ld not save her.' '' But I will die with her !" he 
exclaimed ; and, shaking off tlie grasp of Mcndowit as he 
would a feather, " Mary, oh, Mary !" he continued, rushing 
towards her. She uncovered her head, made an effort to 
rise, and articulated, " Robert !" as he caught and c'a^ped 
her to his bosom. " Oh, Mar}'-, must we die ?" he exclaimed 
" We must, we must," she cried, as she gazed on the 
rolling mountain in agonizing horror ; " why, why did you 
come ^" He replied not ; but, leaning against the rock, 
pressea her closer to his heart ; while she, clinging around 
his neck, burst into a passion of tears, and, laying her head 
or his bosom, sobbed like an infant. He bowed his face 
upon her cold, wet cheek, and breathed one cry for mercy ; 
yet, even then, there was in the hearts of both lovers a 
feeling of wild joy in the thought that they should not be 
'eparateJ. 



454 COM.^ION-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. 

The mass came down, tearinff, and crumbling; and s^rccp 
ing ail before it ! The whole mountain trembled, and llie 
ground shook like an earthquake. The air v/a^ darkenec ^3.' 
the shcsver of water, stones, and branches of trees. crusLet' 
and shivered to atorns , while the blast swept by like & 
whirlwind, and the crash and roar of the convulsion were 
far more appalling than the loudest thunder. 

It might have been one minute, or twenty, — for neitjjer 
of the lovers took note of time, — when, in the husli as vi 
deathlike stillness that succeeded the uproar, Robert Inoked 
around, and sav/ the consuming storm had passed by. It had 
passed, covering the valley, farther than the eye could 
reach, with ruin. Masses of granite, and shivered trees, 
and mountain earth, were heaped high around, filling the 
bed of {]-;e Saco- and exhibiting an awful picture of the des- 
olalino- track of the avalanche. Only one little spot had es- 
caped Its wrath, and there, safe, as if sheltered in the hol- 
lov7 of His hand, who notices the fall of a sparrov/, and 
locked in each other's arms, were Robert and Mary ! Beside 
them stood Mendowit ; his gun firmly clenched, and his 
quick eye rolling around him like a maniac. He had fol- 
lov/ed Robert, though he did not intend it ; probably im 
pelled by that feeling which makes us loath to face danger 
alo-ne ; and thus had escaped. 



The Twins. — Token. 

During the period of the war of the revolution, there 
resided, in the western part of Massachusetts, a farmer by 
the name of Stedman. He wa-s a man of sub&tance, de- 
scended from a very respectable English famih', v/ell edu- 
cated, distmgaislied for great firmness of character in gen- 
eral, and alike rem.arkable for inflexible integrity and stead- 
fast loyalty to his king. Such was the reputation he sus- 
tained, that, even when the most violent antipathies against 
royalism sv^ayed the community, it was still admitted on 
all hands, that fanner Stedman, though a tory, v/as 1 DnesI 
*D bis opinions, a.nd firmly believed Ihem to be right. 



COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PIIOSE. 455 

The period came when Burgoyne was advancing from the 
north. It was a time of great anxiety with both the fritnda 
anil foes of the revokition, and one which called forth their 
highest exertions. The patriotic militia flocked to the stand- 
ard of Gates and Stark, while many of the tories resorted 
to the quarters of Burgoyne and Baum. Among tlie )at- 
ter was Stedman. He had no sooner decided it to be his 
duty, than he took a kind farewell of his wife, a woman 
of uncommon beauty, gave his children, a twin boy ?.nd 
girl, a long embrace, then mounted his horse and depart- 
ed. He joined himself to the unfortunate expedition of 
Baum, and was taken, with other prisoners of war, by the 
victorious^tark. 

He made no attempt to conceal his nam.e or character, 
which were both sooii discovered, and he was accordingly 
committed to prison as a traitor. The gaol, in which he 
was confined, was in the western part of Massachusetts, 
and nearly in a ruinous condition. The farmer v/as one 
night waked fiom his sleep by several persons in his room 
" Come," said they, " you can now regain your liberty ; 
we have made a breach in the prison, through which you 
can escape." To their astonishment, Stedman utterly 
refused to leave his prison. In vain they expostulated 
with him ; in vain they represented to him that life was 
at stake. His reply was, that he was a true man, and a 
servant of king George, and he would not creep out of a 
hole at night, and sneak away from the rebels, to save his 
neck from the gallows. Finding it altogether fruitless to 
attempt to move him, his friends left him, with some ex- 
pressions of sf>leon. 

The time at length arrived for the trial of the prisoner. 
The distance to the place where the court was sitting was 
about sixty miles. S'^edman remarked to the sheriff, when 
he came to attend hini, that it would save some expense 
>nd inconvenience, if he could be {permitted to go alone, 
f.nd on foot. "And svippose," said the sheriff, "that you 
should prefer your safety to your honour, and leave me t« 
seek you in (be British camp ?" " I hud thought," said 
tlie farmer, reddening with indignation, " that, I was speak- 
ing to one Avho knew me." " I do know j'ou, indeed," 
said the sJieriff; "I spoke but in jest; you shall have 



456 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 

your way. Go, and on the third day I shall expect fo set 

you at S ." * * * * xhe fanner departed, and 

at the appointed time he placed himself in the hands of the 
sheriff'. 

I was now engaged as his counsel. Stedman insisted, 
before the court, upon telling his whole story ; and, when 
i would have taken advantage of some technical points, he 
sharply rebuked me, and told me that he had not employed 
me to prevaricate, but only to assist him in telling the truth. 
1 had never seen such a display of simple integrity. It was 
aflfecting to witness his love of holy, unvarnished truth, el- 
evating him above every other consideration, and preiiding 
in his breast as a sentiment even superior to the love of life. 
I saw the tears more than once springing to the eyes of his 
judges ; never before, or since, have I felt such an interest 
in a client I plead for him as I would have plead for my 
own life. I drew tears, but 1 could not sway the judgment 
of stern men, controlled rather by a sense of duty than the 
compassionate promptings of humanity. Stedman was con- 
demned. I told him there was a chance of pardon, if he 
would ask for it. I drew up a petition, and requested him 
to sign it; but he refused. " I have done," said he, "what 
I thought my duty. I can ask pardon of my God, and my 
king ; but it would be hypocrisy to ask forgiveness of these 
men, for an action which I should repeat, were I placed 
jigain in similar circumstances. No ! ask me not to sign 
that petition. If what you call the cause of American 
freedom requires the blood of an honest man for a consci- 
entious discharge of what he deemed his duty, let rue be 
its victim. Go to my judges, and tell them that I place 
not my fears nor my hopes in them." It was in v:.ia that 
I pressed the subject ; and I went away in despair. 

In returning to my house, I accidentally called on an 
acquaintance, a young inan of brilliant genius, the subject 
of a passionate predilection for painting. This led him fre- 
quently to take excursions into the country, for the purpose 
of sketching such objects and scenes as were interesting to 
him. From one of these rambles he h^d jusT returned. 1 
found him sitting at his easel, giving' the last touches to the 
picture which attracted your attention. He asked mj 
opinion (..f it. " It is a fine jiicture," said I ; " is it a fancy 



COMMOiN'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 457 

piece, or are they portraits ?" " They are portraits," said 
lie; " and, save perhaps a little embellishment, tliey are, I 
.chink, striking portraits of the wife and children of you! 
unfortunate client, Stedman. In the course of my ramb'es, 

1 chanced to call at his house in H . I never savz a 

more beautiful group. The mother is one of a thousand 
and the twins are a pair of cherubs." " Tell me," saici I 
laying my hand on tlie picture, " tell me, are they true tnd 
faithful portraits of the wife and children of Stedman '" 
My earnestness made my friend stare. He assured me thjt, 
so far as he could be permitted to judge of his own produc- 
tions, they were striking representations. I asked no further 
questions ; I seized the picture, and hurried with it to the 
prison where my client was confined. I found him sitting, 
his face covered with his hands, and apparently wrung by 
keen emotion. I placed the picture in such a situation tha 
he could not fail to see it. 1 laid the petition on the little 
table by his side, and left the room. 

In half an hour I returned. The farmer grasped my hand, 
while tears stole down his cheeks ; his eye glanced first upon 
the picture, and then to the petition. He said nothing, bu 
handed the latter to me. 1 took it, and left the apartment 
He had put his name to it. The petition was granted, and 
Stedman was set at liberty. 



The lone Indian. — Miss Francis. 

For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen 
standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned ; but 
just thirty years after the death of Soonseetali, he was 
noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his 
figure erect, though he seemed old and way-worn. Age 
had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of 
deep melanclioly had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was 
Powontonamo — he who had once been the Eagle of the 
Mohawks ! He came to lie down and die beneath the broad 
oak, v/hich shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, tlie 
irhite man's axe had been there ! The tree he had planted 
was dead ; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously 
S9 



43S COIIMOX-PLACE BUUS. OF P&OSB. 

ucsa branch to branch, bow, yellosr and wi! " .. ^a 

idling Id the groond. A de^ groan borst fire :^ 

due savage. For thirty wearisiHne years, he : _ 

Chat oak, wish its twining tendrils. They we _ : i j 

things left ia the wide worU Im- him to hnre^ £z - 

gone! He kx^ed abnnd. H^ hnnSing Ian i 

was dianged, like its chieftain. !^d light car \- 

down tibe liver, like a bird opon the wing. 1l : : 

rf tihe white man alme brake its anoodi s^. t 7 e 

Englishman's road wocnd like a serpent aroor _ r : s 

of the Mfdiawk ; and inm hool^ had so beatei r 

war path, fliat a hawk's eye coold not discov: i 

track. The last wigwam was destroyed; z: 

looked boUly down op«i i^pots he had vis: : 

stealth, doting thoosands and thoosands aS n :. :^: 7 

few remaining trees, clothed in the £uitaatic r^ ^ 

automn; the kmg line (^ heavy ckmds, meltinr 

the coming son ; and the dfetant mountain, seen , . 

blue mist i^ departing twilight, akme remaine : 

seen them in his boyhood. AI! diings spi^e a i ^ 

to the heart rf the desoials Indian. " Yes," 5 

yoong oak and the vine are like die Eagle ani 

eye. They are <nit down, torn, and tramplr^ 7 i 

leaves are falling, and the cEoads are scatter!: r ^r 

people. I wish I coold f»ce more see the tr r r f 

thick, as they did when my mother held me :: 

and song the warlike deeds of the Mohawks." 

A mingled expresisao of gnef and anger pa.f 5 ^ 
fkre, as he watched a loaded boat in its passace ' f 

sfrraMi- '^ Tne white man carries £iod to his v ^ 7 7- 

drefi, and he finds &em in his lumie," said he. r > 

the sqaaw and die pappoose of the red man " 7 
here l" As he ^icAe, lie fixed hk eye thoog; 
the grave. AfiLer a glocmiy sflence, he again 7 r 
npon the lair scene, wids a wandering and tr 7 t ' 
" The pale fece may like it," mnrmnred he : 
dian cannot die here in peace." So saying, 7 r 
bcw-stnng, snapped his arrows, threw the:3i c r. . r _ : :^ 
f3ats:s of his fefhers, and departed £ir ever. 



COMMON-PLACK BOOK OF TIIOSL. t59 



A Scene in the Catsklll Mountains. — G. Mei.lejv. 

We first came to ths verge of the precipice, from which 
the water takes its leap upoa a platform that projects with 
the rock many feet over the chasm. Here we gazed into 
the aell and the basin into which the stream pours itself 
from the beetling cliff. But the prospect from this poini 
is tar less thrilling than from below ; and we accordingly 
began our descent. Winding round the crags, and following 
a foot-path between the overhanging trees, wq, gradually, 
and with some difficulty, descended so far as to have a line 
view of the station which we had just left. The scene 
here is magnificent beyond description. Far under the 
blackened canopy of everlasting rock, that shoots above tc 
an alarming extent over the abyss, the eye glances round 
a vast and regular amphitheatre, which seems to be the 
wild assembling-place of all the spirits of ths storms, — so 
rugged, so deep, so secluded, and yet so threatening docs 
it appear ! Down from the midst of the cliff that over- 
arches this wonderful excavation, and dividing in the niidst 
the gloom that seems to settle within it, comes the foaming 
torrent, splendidly relieved upon the black surface of the 
enduring walls, and throning its wreaths of mist along the 
frowning ceiling. Following the guide that had brought 
us thus far down the chasm, we passed into the amphithe- 
atre, and, moving under the terrific projection, stood in the 
centre of this subUme and stupendous work ; — the black, 
ironnound rocks behind us, and the snowy cataract spring- 
mg between us and the boiling basin, which still lay under 
our feet. Here the scene was unparalleled. Here seem- 
ed to be' the theatre for a people to stand in, and behold the 
prodigies and fearful wonders of the Almighty, and feel 
(he.r own insignificance. Here admiration and astonish- 
menr come ipbidden over the soul, and the most obdurate 
Ileal i feels that there is something to be grateful for. In- 
deed, the scene from this spot is so sublime and so well cal- 
culated to impress the feelings with a sense of the powef 
and grandeur of nature, that, apart from all other consid- 
erations, it is worthy of long journeying and extreme toil 
tobenold it. Having taken refreshment, very adroitly man- 



460 coyiyios-PLAcji. boos, of rstosE, 

2g^ to te cGaveyed to us £nHn abore by Jaim, — ^kasa, 
bj tbe way, 1 wooM name ^ ta excelleal guide aoi 
well as a reputable boy, — yfb descended to the estremt: 
deptb of the nmne, and, wiOi certain heruc laifies, wbc 
somehow dared tbe penis of the path, we gazed from th^ 
place upask the sheet at water, iailing from a height c^ wase 
than two hundred and fiHty feet. This is a matter of which 
f^ia^ra wcrald not speak hgfatly ; and diere is waatic? 
only a heavy &I1 1^ water to make this ^pot not imly mag- 
niScent, — f<H- that it is now, — but terribly sublime. Mosn- 
tains ascrend and over^adow it ; crags and prea^ces pro- 
ject themselres in menacing assemblage all about, as though 
frowning orrer a ruin which they are only waiting socie 
fiat to make y^ ra«M« appalling. Nature has hewed cut a 
rcstii^ place I^Hr man, whca« he may linger, and gaze, and 
admire ! Below him ^le awakens her thunder, and darts 
her lightning ; abore him she lifts siill loftier sumnsite, and 
round him she Sings her spray asad her rainbows ' 



TS« 5?. Zairroice.— N P. Willis. 

It was a beautiful night. The fight l&j sleepii^ on 
the Sl Lawrence like a white mist. The boat, on whose 
deck our acquaintances were promenadii^, was tfares^^ig 
the serpentine trhannel d the " Thousand Isles," more like 
winding through a wilderness than fi^lowing the passage 
of a great rirer. The many thsNisani i^ands clustered in 
tlus |Kut of the St. Lawrence seem to realize the ma^ girl's 
dream when ^e Tisited the stars, and found tl^m 

Nothing can be more like ^iry land flian sas&ig amon? 
them oa a summer's erening. They Tary in size, fr'cmi a 
qTt^fter of a mile in cinnimference, to a spot just lsr«e 
enough for «ie solitary tree, and are at diSerent dis 
taoees, from a bow^Mri: to a gallant leap, from each othei 
The uaiTcrsal fbnnalian is a rock, <^ bcKizoaSal stratum * 
ind the river, thoo^ ^r^d into a lake by *nnnmerabs« 
firiaoas, is almost embowered by the luxuriant T^etstior 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF rilOSE. 



4Gl 



R Inch covers them. There is every where sufficient depth 
hv the boat to run directly alongside ; and wilh tiie rapid- 
ity and quietness of her motion, and the near neighbour- 
hood of the trees which may ahnost be touclied, the iljutiori 
of aerial carriage over land is, at first, almost perfect. The 
passage through the more intricate parts of the channel 
is, i'' possible, still more beautiful. You shoot into nerrov/ 
passes, where you could spring on shore on either side, 
catching, as you advance, hasty views to the right and left, 
through long vistas of islands, or, running round a project- 
ing point of rock or woodland, open into an apparent lake, 
and, darting raj)idly across, seem running right on shore as 
you enter a narrow strait in pursuit of the channel. 

It is the finest ground in the world for the " magic of 
moonlight." The water is clear, and, on the night we 
■jpeak of, was a perfect mirror. Every star was repeated. 
The foliage of the islands vv^as softened into indistinctness, 
and they lay in the water, with their well defined shadows 
hanging darkly beneath them, as distinctly as clouds in (he 
sky, and apparently as moveable. In more terrestrial com- 
pany than the lady Viola's, our hero might have fan- 
cied himself in the regions of upper air ; but, as he leaned 
over the tafFrail, and listened to the sweetest voice that ever 
melted into moonlight, and watched the shadows of the 
dipping trees as the approach of the boat broke them, one 
by one, he would have thought twice before he had said 
that he was sailing on a fresh water river in the good steaia 
bjat " Queenston." 



" / have seen an End of all Perfection.'*^ — 
Mrs. Sigourney. 

I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days and tlie 
pride of his strength. He was built like the tall cedar that 
lifts its head above the forest trees ; like the strong oak that 
strikes its root deeply into the earth. He feared no dan- 
ger ; he felt no sickness; he wondered that any should 
groan or sigh at pain. His mind was vigorous, like his 
-od}' : he was perplexed at no intricacy ; he was daunted ?,' 
39* 



t62 COMMON-PLACE BOQK UF TROSE. 

no difficulty; into hidden things he searched, and wba 
\v.vi crooked he made phain. lie went forth feiulessly upnii 
V.ie face of the niiglity deep; he surveyed the nations of 
the eartli ; he measured the distances of the stars, and call- 
ed thern by their names ; he gloried in the extent of his 
kiiowledge, in the vigour of his understanding, and strove 
to search even into what the Almighty had concealed And 
when 1 looked on him I said, " What a piece of work is 
man ! how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in 
form and jnoving how express and admirable ' in action 
how like an angel ! in apprehension how like a God !" 

I returned — his look was no more lofty, nor his step 
proud ; his broken frame was like some ruined tower ; his 
hairs were white and scattered ; and his eye gazed vacant- 
ly upon what was passing around him. The vigour of !iis 
intellect was wasted, and of all that he had gained by study, 
nothing remained. He feared when there was no danger, 
and when there was no sorrow he wept. His memory was 
decayed and treacherous, and showed him only broken im- 
sges of the glory that was departed. His house was to him 
like a strange land, and his friends were counted as his ene- 
mies ; and he thought himself strong and healthful whiie 
his foot tottered on the verge of the grave. He said of his 
son — " He is my brother ;" of his daughter, " 1 know her 
not;" and he inquired what was his own name. Ando;ie 
who supported his last steps, and ministered to his many 
wants, said to me, as I looked on the melancholy scene, 
" Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an 
end of all earthly perfection." 

I have ssen a beautiful female treading the first stages 
of youth, and entering joyfully into the pleasures of life. 
Tlie glance of her eye was -variable and sweet, and on 
her cheek trembled something like the first blush of the 
morning ; her lips moved, and there was harmony ; and 
when she floated in the dance, her light form, like 
the aspen, seemed to move with every breeze. 1 re- 
turned, — but she was not in the dance ; I sought her 
in the gay circle of her companions, but I found her 
not. Her eye sparkled not there — the minic of her voic? 
was silent — she rejoiced on earth no mort- I saw a train, 
sable and slow-paced, who bore sadly to i opened grave 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllUiJlL. 463 

what once was animated and beautiful. They paus'jd aa 
they approached, and a voice broke the awful silence ; 
" ISIinJile ashes with ashes, and dust with its original dust. 
To tlie earth, whence it was taken, consign we the bofly 
of our sister." They covered her with the damp soil and 
the cold clods of the valley; and the worms crowded into 
lier-silent abode. Yet one sad mourner lingered, to cast 
liimself upon the grave ; and as he wept he said, " There is 
nc beauty, or grace, or loveliness, that continueth in man ; 
tor this is the end of all his glory and perfection." 

1 have seen an infant with a fair brow, and a frame like 
polished ivory. Its limbs were pliant in its sports ; it re- 
joiced, a«d again it wept ; but whether its glowing cheek 
dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye was brilliant with 
tears, still I said to my heart, " It is beautiful." it wiis 
like the first pure blossom, which some cherished plant has 
shot forth, v/hose cup is filled with a dew-drop, and whose 
head reclines upon its parent stem. 

I again sav/ this child when the lamp of reason first 
dawned in its mind. Its soul was gentle and peaceful ; its 
eye sparkled wit]> joy, as it looked round on this good and 
pleasant world, it ran swiftly in the ways of knowledge ; 
it bowed its ear to instruction ; it stood l!ke a lamb before 
its teachers. It was not proud, or envious, or stubborn ; and 
It had never heard of the vices and vanities of the world. 
And when I looked upon it, I remembered that our Saviour 
had said, " Except ye become as little children, ye carniot 
enter into the kingdom of heaven." 

But the scene was changed, and I saw a man whom (he 
world called honourable, and many waited for his smile. 
riiey pointed out the fields that were his, and talked of 
the silver and gold that he had gathered ; they admired 
the stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of 
his family. And his heart answered secretly, " By my 
wisdom have I gotten all this ;" so he returned no thanks 
tc God, neither did he feiir or serve him. And as I passed 
along, I heard the complaints of the labourers who had reap 
ed down his fields, and the cries of the ijoor, whose covering 
he had taken away; but the sound of feasting and revelry 
was in his apartments, and the unfed beggar came totter- 
ing from his- doer. But he considered not that the. cile* 



164 C03i3IO.N-PLACE BOOR OF PFvOEE. 

of the oppres-sed were continually entei-ing into the ear» 
of the Mqst High. And when I knew that this man wo? 
once the teachable child that 1 had loved, the beautitU 
mfaat that I had gazed upon with delight, I said in my 
f^itterness, " I have seen an end of all perfection ;" and i 
iid my mouth in the dust. 



JVeatness . — D e >- x i e . 

" Let Ihy ganuents be always white, and let thy head lack no 
ornament." 

Though much occupied in preaching, and noted, aa 
some of my friends say, for a certain poetical heedlessness 
of character, yet, at least every Sunday, if not oftener, I 
copy the common custom, and invest my little person in 
clean array. As, from a vaiiely of motives, and none of 
them, I hope, bad ones, I go with some degree of con- 
stancy to church, I choose to appear there decently and 
in order. However inattentive through the week, on that 
solemn day I brush with more than ordinary pains my best 
coat, am watchful of the purity of my linen, and adjust 
my cravat with an old bachelor's nicety. 

While I was lately busied at my toilet in the work of 
personal decoration, it popped into my head that a sermon in 
praise of neatness would do good service, if not to the world 
at large, at least to many of ray reading, writing and think- 
ing brethren, who make their assiduous homage to mind a 
{ retext for negligence of person. 

Among the minor \irtues, cleanliness ought to be con- 
spicuously ranked; and in the common topics of praise we 
generally arrai<g3 some commendation of neatness. Jt 
involves much. It supposes a love of order, and attention 
to the laws of custom, and a decent pnde. My lord Bacon 
iayS; tliat a good person is a perpetual letter of recommen- 
dation. This idea may be extended. Of a well dressed mac 
it may be aSrmed, that he his a sure passport through the 
realms of civility. In first interviews we can judge of nc 
one except from appearances. He, therefor^, whose ex- 
terior is agreeable, begins well in any society. Men and 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I'ROSS.. 46& 

wro'nen ars disposed to augur favourably rather than other- 
wise oi' him who manifests, by the purity ami propriety of 
his garb, a disposition to comply and to please. As in 
rhetoric a judicious exordium is of admirable use to ren- 
der ■\n audience docile, attentive and benevolent, so, at 
our introduction into good company, clean and modish 
apparel is at least a serviceable herald of our exertions, 
though an humble one. 

As these are very obvious truths, and as literary men 
are generally vain, and sometimes proud, it is singular 
that one of the easiest modes of gratifying self-compla- 
cency should by them be, for the mo-st part, neglected ; and 
that this sort of carelessness is so adhesive to one tribe of 
writers, that the words poet and sloven are regarded as 
synonymous in the world's vocabulary. 

This negligence in men of letters sometimes arises from 
their inordinate application to books and papers, and may 
be palliated, by a good-natured man, as the natural pro- 
duct of a mind too intensely engaged in sublime specula- 
tions, to attend to the blackness of a shoe or the v/hiteness 
of a ruffle. Mr. Locke and Sir Isaac Newton might be 
forgiven by their candid contemporaries, though t'ne first 
had composed his Essay with unwashen hands, and the 
second had investigated the laws of nature when he wag 
clad in a soiled night-gown. But slovenliness is often 
aifected by authors, or ratbf r pretenders (o authorship, 
and must then be considered as highly culpable ; as an 
outrage of decorum; as i\ detiance to the world; as a 
pitiful schem.e to attract roti':e, by means which are equal- 
ly in the power of the drayman and the chimney sweeper. 
I know a poet of thin f'.e'^;crip\ion, who anticipates renown 
no less from a dirty r,hirt than from an elegant couplet, and 
imagines that, when his appearance is the most sordid, the 
world must concl'^de^ of course, that his mind is splendid 
and fair. In his opinion " marvellous foul lifien" is a 
token of wit, and iuky fingers indicate humour ; he avers 
that a slouched hat is demonstrative of a well stored brain, 
and tint genius always trudges about in unbuckled sh.oes 
He looks for invention in rumpled ruffles, and finds h.igb 
K)unding poetry among the .^olds of a loose stocking. 



i66 co.'siiiox-rLACE book of prose. 

SloTcn'iuess, so far from being commendable in Si 
author, is more inexcusable iu men of letters ibiin in manj 
others, the nature of whose employment compels them to 
be conversant with objects sordid and impure. A ?ns;ih 
from bis forge, or a husbandman from bis neld, is cbligeil 
sometimes to appear stained with the smut of the one or 
the dust of the other. A writer, on the contrary, sitting 
ia an easy chair at a polished desk, and leaning on v»-riite 
paper, or examining the pages of a book, is by no mea-ia 
obliged to be soiled by his labours. I see no reason why 
an author should not be a gentleman ; or at least as clean 
and neat as a Quaker. Far from thinking that filthy dress 
marks a liberal mind, I should suspect the good sense 
and talents of him, who ailected to wear a tattered coat as 
tne badge of his profession. Should I see a reputed 
genius totally regardless of his person, I should imiuedi- 
ateiy doubt the delicacy of his taste and the accuracy of his 
judgment. I should conclude there was some obliquity 
in his mind — a dull sense of decorum, and a disregard of 
order. I should fancy that lie consorted with low societj- ; 
and, instead of claiming the privilege of genius to knock 
and be admitted at palace's, that he chose to sneak in at the 
back door of hovels, and wallow brutishly in the sty of the 
vulgar. 

The orientals are careful of their persons with much 
care. Their frequent ablutions and change of garments 
are noticed in every page of their history. My test is 
not the only precept of neatness, that can be quoted from 
the Bible. The wise men of the cast supposed there was 
some analogy between the purity of the body and that 
of the mind ; nor is this a vain imagination. 

I cannot conclude this sermon better than by an extraci 
from the works of 'Count Rumford, who, in few and strong 
words, has fortified my doctrine : 

" Yt'iti? what care and attention do the feathered race 
^ash themselves, and put their p'-umage in order! and how 
perfectly neat, clean, and elegant, do they ever appear ' 
Among the beasts of the field, we find that those which 
are the most cleanly are generally the most gay anJ 
cheerful, or are distinguished by a ceitain air of traa 
quillity and contentment; and singing birds are always 



COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRUSII. 4«?7 

remarkable tor the neatness of their plumage. So great, is 
iho eflect of cleanliness upon man, that it extends even t';i 
liis moral character. Virtue never dwelt long with iiiVu ; 
nor do 1 believe there ever was a person scrupulously 
attentive to cleanliness, who was a consu.umate viiiini." 



Description of King's College Chapel. — Silliman. 

Til F. chapel of King's College is allowed to be the most 
perfect and magnificent monument of Gothic architecture 
in the world. Its dimensions are — length, three hundred 
and sixteen feet; breadth, eighty-four feet; height of the 
top of the battlements, ninety feet; to the top of the pin- 
nacles, one hundred and one feet ; to the top of the comer 
towers, one hundred forty-six and a half feet. The inside 
dimensions are — length, tvv'o hundred and ninety-one feet ; 
breadth, forty-five and a half feet ; height, seventy-eigllt. 
It is all in one room, and the roof is arched with massy 
stcne ; the key stones of the arch v/eigh each a ton, 
and there is neither brace, beam, nor prop of any kind, 
to support the roof, all the stones of which are of enor- 
mous magnitude. Modern architects, and Sir Christopher 
Wren among the number, have beheld thfs roof with 
astonishment, and have despaired of imitating it It i« 
reported of Sir Christopher, that he used to sav, he wciiJ 
engage to build such an arch, if any one would f»;it sr.v-.v 
liim where to place the first stone. 

When you realize the magnitude of this room, tlie roof 
of which is sustained entirely by the walls, buttiesses and 
towers, you will say that it is a wonderful monument of 
hum.an skill and power. The mteiior'is anished in the 
very finest st^'le of Gothic urcnitecture. The roof is fret- 
ted with many curious devices raised on the stones, and 
:he walls are adorned with massy sculpture, v/here the 
figures appeal as if growing to the soiid structure of the 
building; for, while they project into the room on one 
side, they remain on the other joined by their natural con- 
nexion with the stones from which they were originallv 
5i-rvcd. The windows are superbly painted, and the suV 



46S COMilO.v-PLACE BUUK. OF PROSE 

*»cts are principaiiy from Scripture history. The [^nfj 
t>f glass are separaied only by very narrow frajues, and il-e 
figures painted upon tbem often extend over a great many 
paues, without any regard to the divisions : it often hap- 
pens, therefore, that the figures are as large as the life, 
and they are always so large as to be distinct at a cor.- 
siderable distance. The windows in Gothic structures are 
conimoTily covered, in a great measure, with fine paintings 
the colours of which are extremely vivid and beautiful. 
You can easily conceive, therefore, that, on entering z 
Gothic church, the eye must be immediately arrested and 
engrossed by these splendid images: they are rendered 
very conspicuous by the partial transmission of the light, 
which they soften and diversify, without impairing it so 
much as to produce obscurity, while, at the same time, 
they give the interior of the building an unrivalled air of 
Folemnity and grandeur. 

"When the specta^^or retires to one end of the chapel of 
whfch I am speaking, and casts his e5'es along its beauii- 
ful pavesnents, tessellated with black and white marbie, 
along its roof, impending with a mountain's weight, ajui 
alons the stupendous columns which support the arch, 
surveying at the same time the gorgeous transparesf iea 
wh'ch ve:i tne Si?.>s, he is involuntaiily filled v/iil] awe 
tad -isronisnineni. 



ru'd END 




D e ad i d B ed using fie BooMeeperp 
Neufeaizing agent Ma^esun Qh 
Ti uj>iM * DBie: Sept 2009 

PreservationTec"'^":": 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 401 223 4 






£ 












